


The Artist and Her Patron, or, The Story of My Last Commission

by doodlejack



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Casual discussion of death and killing, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Sex, F/M, Killing, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Physical Abuse, Sassy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, messed up shit, persuasion to kill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlejack/pseuds/doodlejack
Summary: Hannibal discovers a local artist that specializes in unorthodox materials. They could be the key to what ails the other, but only if they both survive. A dual POV.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Original Character(s), Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 101





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my slow-burn hell. I wanted to closely examine a turning/becoming of a character with a fair amount of moral grayness, but this is still Hannibal's story, in a way, so I tell the story from the POV of both characters. One of the things that inspired me to write this was my dissatisfaction with the way Hannibal is written in a lot of fics, so C/C on Hannibal's characterization is always helpful. 
> 
> I'm a wordy, long-winded grad student, and the "good stuff" begins at Chapter 3 (parts V and VI) for anyone wanting to skip to the manipulation and gaslighting, but you miss some characterization and fluff. I'm not ashamed to admit that it gets much better down the line, as I get a better idea of the plot, characters, and what exactly is going on. Maybe one day I'll edit the first few chapters, but that remains to be seen. 
> 
> I am ALWAYS open to C/C, love it, and every kudos and comment motivates me further.
> 
> Please enjoy this Fic/Hannibal/Hannigram/Love is Consumption and Pain playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qxwjeNvlQh15a8LWJeYkD?si=G8Baqfj1RAerjLjP4vRt1A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal stumbles upon a strange individual with stranger secrets.

#### I

“He’s really one of Baltimore’s best Up and Coming currently,” a simpering young man tells Hannibal over a plastic cup of white wine. They stand in front of a large canvas with what appears to be socks and underwear stapled to the surface and smeared with yellow and red impasto. Of all the gallery openings Hannibal attended in his life, this one hovered dangerously close to the bottom of the list. Hannibal nods in acknowledgement, but not agreement; the gallery manager’s untailored suit and cheap wine betrayed the true earning value of the work in front of them.  


Most artworks by an artist of true potential sell before the gallery opens its doors for the evening, poached by the elite collectors and auction house buyers before the general public gets a chance. Hannibal skipped the early viewing but could not wrestle away from his agreement to the monthly gallery crawl with his culturally inclined social circle. The socks aside, the evening left him unimpressed, and worse, uninspired. The non-objective abstract vein of art tended to bounce off him… it always feels like so much emotion with so little direction, or vice versa.  


Hannibal thanked the gallery manager for his time and places the still full cup of box wine on a table as he makes his exit to the brisk fall night.  


“Dolores, this is the last time you plan a gallery opening night out,” Mr. Dotton says around a cigarette. “I thought the ‘alternative stuffed animals’ were bad enough but you ended us on bloody socks.”  


Dolores Tinsley rolls her eyes and fluffs her coat collar against the wind, “not everything has to make sense to you, you know, you could let something be weird for the sake of weird.”  


Hannibal moves upwind of the stench of the cigarette, tunes out the bickering, and prepares to make his departure home. He opens his mouth to say his farewells and stops when he notices a venue at the end of the block. Red light emanates from the open doorway and a simple neon sign reads _Folle_. “How long has that space been open?” he asks no one in particular.  


Mr. Dotton frowns and looks down the street, “Oh, that, well it hasn’t been open long, but there haven’t been any reviews and I haven’t seen anything about who they’re showing…”  


“It looks dreary,” says Gayle, another art enthusiast, “and it’s late.”  


The red light at the end of the row still held Hannibal’s attention. “Very well, if you would like to retire for the evening, I understand completely. If anyone cares to join me, I’m curious about this newcomer to our art scene here in Baltimore.”  


Everyone group shrugged and Mr. Dotton puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully, but no one made a move to join Hannibal. So, he said his goodbyes and began down the sidewalk. It was late, and only a few lingering souls remained floating in and out of the galleries. Art students and practitioners gliding around the collectors and high class but mixing only to discuss prices or provenance.  


“Hannibal!” Dolores called from behind, and he slowed to let her catch up in her heels. “Whatever it is, it has to be better than those socks.”  


Hannibal smiled, “It’s nice you are so supportive of your nephew. He’s young, he may improve yet.”  


Dolores chuckled, “I doubt it, but I’ll pass the sentiment along.” And the they laughed. “My sister loves her son so very much, but her talent apparently skipped a generation. I mean… stapling socks? Honestly…”  


At the door to Folle, they pass through a halo of red light and through a heavy curtain into a familiarly pristine and white gallery hall.  


“Oh my god,” Dolores gasps, “what did you pull us into Hannibal?”  


A soft grin spreads wider across his face, “Come now, Dolores, what happened to weird for the sake of weird?” She shoots him a look and he leaves her at the door, too engrossed in the scenes in front of him to wait for her.  


Thirteen skulls rested under thirteen glass cloches, each decorated more decadently than the last. Hannibal could feel his heart rate quicken as he examined a skull plastered with preserved orchid blooms. He frowned then, when he felt his skin pricking under the gaze of someone he could not see. He turned to scan the lingering crowd in the gallery but could see no one. Hannibal’s nostrils flared minutely and he returned to the skulls.  


Something about them gnawed at Hannibal and as he turned his gaze to the piece beyond the foyer, his suspicions were confirmed: these were real human remains. These were real human remains and there was no sign the other attendees knew.  


Dolores pulls him out of his reverie, “Hannibal, these things are grotesque, I would like to lea-”  


She’s cut off by a laugh, “I’m sorry, I overheard your critique.” A woman of slight stature joins them holding a red wine in an actual wine glass. Promising. “Cass’ work is a little… confronting for some.”  


Hannibal tilts his head, “Cass?”  


“Cassandra Marder, our star opener of the evening.” She extends her hand, “I’m Joan Pomm, director of Folle.” Hannibal shakes her hand and she continues, “Cassandra works tirelessly, and uses a wide variety of materials- a true jack of all trades.” The corners of Hannibal’s mouth turned up and he nodded; she had no idea the variety of materials her star artist used. He frowned when the hair on the back of his neck stood up yet again, and yet again he could not spot the person staring at him.  


“Is Ms. Marder here tonight? I’d love to talk to her about her work.”  


“She is, yes, I’ll see if I can track her down,” Joan searched the gallery and her brow furrowed. “Hmm, I don’t know where she could have gone… excuse me, and I’ll try to find her.”  


Hannibal returned his attention to the sculpture behind the row of skulls and Dolores begrudgingly followed. A fiberglass model of a human chest cavity lay filled with carnivorous plant varieties. The replicated body was textured and glazed in an excellent replication of decay, but the skull at the top of the neck was no replica. Hannibal had seen enough skulls to know a real one when he saw one, and this one was very real, just like the thirteen in the front of the exhibition. A vine of pitchers spilled out of the eye socket, heavy with their digestive juices. The whole thing was protected under a large acrylic box and the slight obfuscation of the scene inside from the condensation on the surface made the work feel like a forbidden and dark discovery.  


The third time he felt his skin prick under the gaze of a stranger, he caught her. The woman he could only assume was Cassandra Marder stood across the gallery, half hidden behind a cluster of skulls and preserved flowers hanging from the ceiling. She met his stare with sharp eyes under dark brows and Her lip twitched slightly, and Hannibal felt 

Cassandra knew he understood exactly what her sculptures were made of. The feeling lasted half a second, but it was all Hannibal needed. 

#### II

I keep my expression as neutral as possible.  


He knows. How does he know?? He knows…  


I sip my wine to hide my alarm, but nearly jump out of my skin when Joan Pomm grabs my arm. “There you are!” she smiles and pulls me in the direction of him. He has not moved. He has not taken his eyes off me. I know resisting Joan is futile, and I allow her to pull me along. Joan leans and whispers into my ear, “The dashing one in the blue wants to talk to you, he seemed very interested… and would you look at that suit! I’m about to raise your rates.” I managed a half smile and tried to ignore the blood roaring in my ears. I knew people would suspect or question, but they were never supposed to know the way he knows.  


“Found her,” Joan situates me directly in front of him. He’s tall, broad, and well groomed… I’d be attracted to him if I wasn’t so worried about being discovered. “This is Cassandra Marder.”  


“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” he outstretches his hand, and I shake it as firmly as I can muster. “I love your work. It’s… delightfully refreshing.” I’m holding his gaze as best as I can, but his eyes bore into me with uncomfortable intensity. I sensed his awareness when he walked into the gallery. The way Dr. Lecter perceives the world is not normal, and I evaded him as well as I could even as I felt compelled to observe him. I know I don’t perceive the world normally either, but our inclinations are not the same. I’m grateful when the woman with the pinched face next to him sniffs expectantly. “This is my colleague, Dr. Dolores Tinsley,” Dr. Lecter says.  


She shakes my hand less eagerly than Dr. Lecter and the clamminess of her grasp sponges away the heat of Dr. Lecter’s hand. “Charmed,” she says, clearly not charmed at all.  


“Your craftsmanship… it’s exquisite,” Dr. Lecter continues, ignoring how badly his companion does not want to be there. “I can’t imagine how I haven’t come across your work before.”  


“Cassandra is very new to Baltimore… she showed once in New York but ended up here, well…”  


“For personal reasons,” I croaked out and sipped my wine again. “My grandmother passed and left me her home outside of town.”  


“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Dr. Lecter said.  


I nodded, “Thank you, but… she was battling Parkinson’s for so long… and it was time, truly. I miss her, but…” I trailed off and brought myself back. “I couldn’t bring myself to sell her home and New York’s novelty wore off, so I figured a change of scenery was in order.”  


Joan touched my shoulder reassuringly. Joan played a big part in getting me settled, arranged a solo show, and sold all my pieces to eclectic collectors across the country. I was eternally grateful for her help, but right now I wanted to curse her for making me cross paths with Dr. Lecter. I had been so careful and up until this moment, diverting the vain, empty art collectors’ attention to the Klimt-esque gold leaf or “innovative use of flowers” was easy. I knew this man would not be distracted by such trivial baubles.  


“So, what does it take to acquire one of these works?” Dr. Lecter asks.  


Joan tutted, “All of the pieces you see here have already sold. Cassandra left quite a few admirers in New York.”  


“A commission then, I prefer to collect as many bespoke pieces as I am able, anyway,” he smiled and straightened his suit jacket. The dark blue reflected purple as the fabric shifted over his broad frame. A paisley silk tie and shining European shoes complete the ensemble and he even smells expensive. Joan’s assessment of his financial situation was spot on.  


I watched my gallerist feign thinking about the doctor’s offer and answered for her, “Sorry, I’m not cut out for commissions… my work is much more… improvisational than what aligns with special requests. What I make is what’s available.” Joan shoots a look in my direction but does not say anything else.  


“I assure you, I wouldn’t dream of hindering your creative process, but perhaps I could provide you with some… inspiration, as it were, and you could take it from there.” He says. I blink at that and try to think of what Dr. Lecter could find inspiring.  


“I- I’m sorry, but what does this all mean?” Dr. Tinsley interjects and gestures to the pieces around her. “I’m afraid I just don’t get it.” Dr. Lecter glances at her coldly.  


“Dolores, please, it is so rare these days for an artist to create work that speaks for itself. Having her explain it all would dampen the experience.” Dr. Lecter says.  


“Well, I don’t hear it saying anything to me,” she replies.  


“Then perhaps you could try listening beyond the boarders of your sensibilities,” Dr. Lecter says and the gentle pulse of the vein in his forehead betrays his anger at his colleague’s rudeness.  


“But, I mean, skulls, flowers, pearls, opal… its garish. Who really buys this?”  


I’m no stranger to criticism, but this old woman was wearing me thin. I briefly imagine her skull with the fur collar of her designer coat spilling out of its jaws. “Many people, Joan just said all of my work in this show sold already, “ I said sharply. “And I guess some collectors have broader palates than others.”  


He smiles at my quip, and flashes his disappointment back to his colleague. “I intend to buy one of these pieces, one way or another, Dr. Tinsley” Dr. Lecter’s tone warns against further comments. “Perhaps you would feel more at home with your nephew’s work.” She glares at him, huffs, and turns on her heel to leave. We watch her walk away for a moment and Dr. Lecter apologizes for Dr. Tinsley’s behavior.  


Joan waves it away, “Cassandra’s work is not for the faint of heart, understandably so. We knew going into this show that there could be… disquiet. But we knew the risk was worth it, if only to shake up this stuffy row of galleries, right Cass?” She nudges me.  


“I have to agree with you on that,” Dr. Lecter says and I smile. I wonder if my worries are misguided nerves over my opening, and I imagined the whole thing. But when Joan steps away and he turns back to me with his relentless appraisal I accept my new circumstances. My secret is out, at least to this man. I could come back from this if I handle myself well.  


“At any rate, it’s past closing, and the live plants in Cassandra’s work need care before bedtime. But here, take these,” Joan returns holding her card and mine, she places them inside one of the shows catalogues, and passes the bundle to Dr. Lecter. I feel less dread than I thought I would, watching her give my personal phone number to Dr. Lecter. I felt my secret was more or less safe with him, for the time being.  


Our eyes met as he said his goodbyes and I stared back with less difficulty than the first time, but his departing handshake was so warm, the heat lingered long after he walked out the door.  


“I smell a patron, Cass, the quiet mysterious act really worked on him, and then your snide little put-down” Joan patted my shoulder after locking the door.  


“I- I think I was just nervous. He was… a lot.”  


“I know, I don’t blame you. What a man, but a new-ish artist like you still needs to be careful who she associates with. Stay professional and let me handle the negotiations.” Joan picked up the last stay wine glasses and took them to the back room.  


Joan doesn't know that Dr. Lecter and I already have a very unprofessional understanding of eachother.


	2. Studio Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal visits Cassandra's home for a studio visit, and it's... tense.

#### III

A week after meeting Cassandra at the gallery, Hannibal pulled into her driveway in a quiet suburb outside of Baltimore. Two persimmon trees, heavy with ripening fruits, guard the red brick and white shutters.  


He rang the doorbell even though the main door was open, allowing the Fall air to breeze through the screen door. A resonating boof replied to the ringing and a massive dog appeared behind the screen, alert, and tail wagging.  


“Apollo, who is it?” he heard her voice faintly through the screen before he saw her. Cassandra Marder emerged from a back room in a set of coveralls, safety glasses, and a ventilation mask and started when she saw Hannibal through the screen. “Dr. Lecter! I- I completely apologize, I didn’t realize it was three already…“ she rips her safety gear off and rushes to open the screen door. “Time tends to get away from me when I’m working, I, uh…” she looks down at her splattered coveralls and clears her throat, “Come in, please.”  


“Don’t worry,” Hannibal said, “I understand the reverie of creative work all too well. I tend to get lost myself.” The dog trots up again, this time holding a throw pillow from the couch and presents it to the doctor. “And who is this?”  


“Apollo, my grandmother’s service dog.” Cassandra runs her hand through her hair and rubs the lines on her face in an effort to disperse the effects of the heavy-duty mask. “He was trained to bring her things she needed so she didn’t have to move as much, and get help in the event of a fall… you have to take the pillow or he won’t leave you alone.”  


Hannibal smiles and shifts his bag to accept Apollo’s gift, “Truly a gentle giant.” Apollo’s head came higher than Hannibal’s waist. “Still doing his job as dutifully as he is able.”  


“He welcomes everyone that way,” Cassandra said and nudged the dog with her knee. “Come on, bud, don’t get your fur all over Dr. Lecter’s suit. Find a spot.” Apollo’s ears perk at the command and he begrudgingly leaves Hannibal’s side to lay on the rug with a huff. “He’s half great Pyrenees, half lab, Doctor. Once his fur is on you, it’s impossible to get off.”  


“Call me Hannibal, please,” he places the pillow in an overstuffed chair of green velvet and watches the guard settle over her now that the surprise of his arrival has worn off. Her blue coveralls are a far cry from the aubergine dress she wore the night they met at the gallery, but she moves with more assurance and he appreciates getting to observe Cassandra in the setting most natural to her.  


“Can I get you some tea?” She tucks her hands in her pockets and leads Hannibal to the kitchen. A trail of dust falls off her clothes and hair, visible in the light filtering in the wide windows of her living room. Hannibal breaths it in… bitter and earthy… burnt hair and truffles… Cassandra has been sawing bones, hence all the protective gear. He smiles at its familiarity and undoes his suit button as he sits at her kitchen table.  


While she tends to the kettle, Hannibal takes stock of the ground floor of her home. It’s filled with an awkward pairing of old and new things, no doubt as the house’s new, young owner tries to reconcile her late grandmother’s belongings with her needs and styles. Old couch, new throw pillows. Old kitchen table, new plates. Old mugs, new electric gooseneck kettle. It lacks the dusty clutter of most homes belonging to the elderly, but the features and appliances are more woefully outdated than the faded easy chair in the corner. Photographs of Cassandra’s family cover the floral wallpaper. Her grandmother was beautiful, a trait Cassandra inherited and expanded upon. He saw pictures of young Cassandra- all legs and elbows and gapped smiles- but no pictures of anyone that could have been her parents.  


Cassandra’s kitchen is spotless, and there are very few hints as to her temperament in the kitchen. Hannibal assumes it’s because she is yet to make it her kitchen after the passing of her grandmother, something he can scratch at later.  


A metal tea infuser bobs in the mug Cassandra places in front of Hannibal, dark magenta seeping lazily into the hot water. “It’s Hibiscus, blackcurrant, and mint,” Cassandra says and sits on the opposite end of the table with her own mug. “The mint is from Nana’s, well, my garden now.”  


“Home grown herbs are one of life’s simplest pleasures,” Hannibal inhales the tea’s scent appreciatively. “I myself prefer locally or personally grown ingredients whenever I am able to get them.”  


Cassandra shrugs, “I’m still learning herbs… I can handle my orchids and the carnivorous plants that need constant fiddling and maintenance, but the sage is barely hanging on. The mint is happy? Basil is leggy, but I think that’s the changing seasons…” she raises her hands in question.  


Hannibal inclines his head, “Sage is sensitive to fertilizers… if you have it on the same feeding schedule as your other herbs, that could be where the issue lies.”  


Cassandra nods, brow furrowed, and clears her throat, she remembers she is having tea with the man that inexplicably knows the true nature of her installations. She forces a sip of the still-scalding tea down to make up for the beat of empty silence and nods at Hannibal’s leather briefcase. “Joan said you would have some inspiration images for me?”  


“Yes, I thought these could shine a light in this dark maze we are entering together,” Hannibal pulls a tablet out of his bag and Cassandra idly wonders how much a bag like that costs as he pulls up a folder of images. “I’m curious what you will make of these. Some of these images have inspired me for years, others I found in research for this studio visit.”  


Cass takes the tablet, ignoring the maze comment, and studies the pictures.  


Audubon’s illustrations of raptors carrying bleeding rabbits into the sky.  


Van Gogh’s skull studies.  


Half decayed foxes inside fairy rings.  


Goya’s _Saturn Devouring His Son_.  


Carved cow’s skulls.  


Artemisia Gentileschi’s _Judith Slaying Holofernes_.  


A giant spider with a bird snared in it’s web.  


Far too many Dutch still life’s and landscapes.  


Bernini’s _The Abduction of Persephone_.  


Bee hive in a deer carcass.  


_Leda and the Swan_.  


The usual suspects.  


Hannibal watches her face as she swipes through the folder of pictures. He can’t see what images she sees, but he knows which one she’s looking at when her finger wavers before the next swipe, and her chest rises with a controlled inhalation of surprise. Cass’ face does not change when she sees the Chesapeake Ripper crime scene shot, but she cant help the way her pulse quickened and beat in her temple or the way her pupils dilated. The corners of Hannibal’s mouth turn up imperceptibly, and Cassandra swipes onwards to a picture of butterflies lapping at the blood of a dead blue jay.  


When she’s done, Cassandra puts the tablet down and rubs her eyes. “So, in this stage, what is the… I guess the overarching effect or impact you want this piece to have?” She leans back in her chair and finds a notepad on the counter.  


“I’m more curious about your assessment of these photos. I chose them very carefully.”  


Cassandra raises an eyebrow and taps the paper with her pen, “It’s hard to ignore your predator vs. prey motif. Uhm,” she swipes back through a few images. “A lot of Baroque and Renaissance time periods so, there’s inherently a struggle between religion and excess… with a few outliers,” she glances up and meets his gaze. “I’m betting the images with the half-decayed animals are recent additions, in line with the work you saw last week.”  


Hannibal grins, “Artists always see so much… do you see so much and it’s what drives you to create? Or does your creation feed your perception?” Hannibal’s eyes are unyielding and do not waver even as Apollo saunters into the kitchen.  


She looks at him with her dark eyes and chews the inside of her mouth, “It’s a compulsion. I tend to start a project with no idea how it will end and find it along the way. It’s why I was hesitant to accept this commission…” She looks down into the dark magenta of her tea, “I can’t promise a definable outcome, and I’d hate to disappoint you.”  


“I highly doubt you will disappoint me, looking at your works from last week,” his tone is reassuring. “But I do wonder what you will find over the course of the masterpiece you will make for me,” Hannibal says. Bone dust floats around her like a halo, and Hannibal ponders asking her about the true nature of her artwork outright, but it would be so much sweeter if she confessed of her own accord. His past experiments of this nature were, regrettably, disappointments. Patience is a virtue, and Hannibal always gets what he wants… one way or another.

#### IV

I’m covered head to toe in a jumpsuit and yet I feel naked. All he’s done is pet my dog and drink tea, but I don’t know what it is about him that makes me feel like running away from and to him at the same time. And what are these pictures?? He seems less intense than he did at the gallery opening, maybe because he’s wearing a lighter colored suit, or because he’s no longer surrounded by the viscera of my artwork… and it’s hard for anyone to look intimidating sitting with a mug of pink tea at Nana’s kitchen table. I shift around in my coveralls. They offer more protection than the dress and heels I wore a week ago but I feel more examined alone with Dr. Lecter than I did in a room of people staring at my own artwork.  


“What? I’m sorry,” I shake my head, he said something, and I missed it completely. “My mind was elsewhere.” I don’t know what deal he struck with Joan that I’ve been so pushed into taking on this commission, but her “consulting fee” must have been doubled or more.  


“I said, tell me about the outliers,” he takes his first sip of tea. Watching a man of his composure, wearing a suit like that, drink out of an “I <3 NY” mug Is bizarre. I briefly consider practicing portraits again just so I can draw his face and study his, well, everything.  
_Focus, you idiot._

“Mushrooms consume, but they do not hunt, they have no concept of revenge or desire,” I tell him and that seems to please him. “You have some viscerally charged images here, a lot of blood, but the mushrooms… where do they fit in?” Apollo nudges his elbow and Dr. Lecter obliges him with an ear scratch.  


“In my work for the FBI I came across an individual that was obsessed with mushrooms to an extreme point,” Dr. Lecter takes the tablet back and finds different photos. “I’m not meant to show you these, but the case was solved and, well, I think they’ll illustrate my point.”  


He shows me a row of half rotted bodies resting in the woods. They are covered in a bloom of fungus that stretches over all the corpses. It’s beautiful, in its own way, and I love it. But I feign a bodily reaction, cover my mouth with my hand, and look away. These are far more shocking than the other crime scene photos; those weren’t too graphic to be released to the public. “I’m not sure I get your point, no.”  


Dr. Lecter sighs quietly in… disappointment? Wait, did he say the FBI??? “I’m sorry, I didn’t think the images would be so disturbing with your… subject matter of choice.”  


I force a laugh, “Resin plastic models are a lot different from, god, whatever that was. I wasn’t ready to see that… Those were people?” He turns his eyes on me again, searching me for, well, anything, and I dig in deep. If I can use my false scandalized horror to my advantage, I will.  


“Yes, they were people. Their killer was so obsessed with the idea of connection, he believed harnessing the mycelium of mushrooms were the only way to achieve true synthesis of human minds,” Hannibal says. “Their rhizome can stretch for miles, unseen underground. The only parts of their network we are privy to are the fruits we see above ground and on decaying bodies such as these. They don’t hunt the way we think of hunting, but their consumption is insidious and ravaging.” Apollo nudges him again and the doctor obliges. He licks his lips and his forehead creases, “Your pieces are made with plastic replicas?”  


“Some specimens are real, and some are sourced from various craftsmen. I use theater or medical quality, or artificially age when I have to. But the plants and small animals are all real,” I tell him, swigging my tea to help the lie. It’s not even a complete lie; I just left a few parts out. “I’ve never used mushroom imagery in my pieces, so if that’s a concept you’re attached to, I’ll need to do some materials tests first. But it shouldn’t be a problem.” I hold out my hand to see the bodies again.  


“Are you sure?”  


I nod and he hands it over. As I look through the pictures, I wonder who else he trusts with these. The affluent can get away with a certain level of eccentricity, but the keeping and sharing of classified FBI crime scene images feels dangerous. I’ve seen illegal exotic animal trophies in the homes of some of my patrons. There’s a similar pride between him and the other patrons, except I’m not looking at his trophies. I turned a blind eye to a lot of the odd predilections and recreations of my buyers. They like my work for the opulence and power it represents, and they pay for it handsomely. Dr. Lecter is no different in that, apparently.  


“Have you ever done a studio visit?” I ask.  


He shakes his head. “Not like this, I admit. This is a first for me, commissioning an artwork of this scale. I buy and collect frequently. I imagined it might be like a garment tailoring, in a way. The fine tuning of a bespoke ornamentation.”  


I nod and shrug. “Come and step into my office,” I say and he smiles. Leading him back through the living room to the garage door, I watch him as we pass the hall mirror and his eyes are still focused on me. “So, you do work for the FBI? Joan told me you were a psychiatrist.” I keep my tone as noncommittal as possible. Psychiatrist is bad enough, but the FBI? I need to be careful.  


“I assist a friend of mine in creating psychological profiles for their more evasive and creative killers,” he tells me, as I open the door to my sealed garage studio.  


“That sounds exciting,” I say absentmindedly and quiet the alarms in my head. “This is where my dirty work happens. Nana didn’t drive and I don’t mind not using a garage if I don’t have to pay for a studio space, so I got to convert this place to a playground.” I shove my hands in my coveralls pockets to cease their fiddling and watch Dr. Lecter take in the benches covered in half-finished projects and components, shelves of supplies and racks of tools. Empty mold shells for casting in plastic and fiberglass line a far wall. He takes a deep breath and his eyes glint with confusion for a heartbeat as they flit around the room, searching for my more interesting art materials. I keep them in another room in the house, my skulls and teeth and bones, and I won’t be showing off that place any time soon. 

“Your tailor analogy doesn’t quite hit the mark, I think. You know what a shirt looks like, is supposed to fit and feel like. You have me flying blind, Dr. Lecter.”  


He turns and searches me again, “Will you ever call me Hannibal, like I’ve asked?”  


I blink and look at my bales of wire and chain hanging from the wall swinging gently, poised to unravel. “I’m trying to stay professional, but maybe when we are friends.”  


“I’d like to be your friend, Cassandra.” He softens then, a quiet plea laid over a roaring demand. I can’t remember when I’ve heard him say my name out loud in his deep, smooth voice, and it sets the back of my neck to tingling.  


“I understand, Dr. Lecter, but this is where we are for now.”  


He gives me a small smile and a nod, “For now.”


	3. Watch Your Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Borrowing a cup of sugar from a neighbor has never been so dangerous.

#### V

Hannibal taps his steering wheel with his thumbs, deep in thought. The rest of the studio visit was uneventful. They discussed size, looked at pictures of Hannibal’s home and where the sculpture might rest, and Apollo watched him get into his car from the screen door and Cassandra disappeared back into her secret spaces. Where did she keep her trophies, works in progress, all of the little baubles and pieces adorning her sculptures? Hannibal sighs… it was difficult to accept the artist he met last week and the work she crafted originated from that house. She kept the best part of her practices hidden from him, and he knew it and wanted desperately to see where she flourished, where she was unhidden and uninhibited. Hannibal sets his jaw, reminds himself to be patient, and makes his way into his office for his 5:00 appointment.  


A soft jingling comes from his suit pocket and he smiles to himself. Apollo started barking at a squirrel or the like, and Cassandra ran out to quiet him, leaving Hannibal alone in her garage for a few moments. It was more than enough time to do what he needed, and sooner or later he would see results.  


“Will, good evening, please come in.” Hannibal says, opening the door to his office at 7:00 sharp. Graham walks in and settles himself into the soft leather chair. The sharpness of his aftershave pricks Hannibal’s nostrils, as it always does, and he clears his throat as he sits opposite his guest. “How are you feeling today?”  


Their conversation is standard, expected, and Hannibal finds his mind wandering to his newest project, despite his best efforts. Will is an incredible draw for Hannibal, but the novelty of the possibilities that may or may not come to fruition with Cassandra tempt his attentions elsewhere. Will’s course is as set as he is constant; Hannibal has a good idea of Will’s progression and while it is thrilling to see his influence slowly creep in, unnoticed…. The artist elicits a delicious anticipation. He feels like a child seemingly content to play with one toy, all the while eyeing the shiny wrapped packages under the Christmas tree, knowing they are for him.  


“Dr. Lecter, am I boring you?” Will inclines his head.  


Hannibal inhales deeply, “No, not at all.”  


“You seem… distracted. It’s unusual for you.”  


“I apologize,” Hannibal laces his fingers. “I initiated something today, and to be frank, I’m unsure of how it will end.” Truth be told, there’s success or a dead local artist, but the path to either outcome is foggy.  


“Are you unfamiliar with the sensation of uncertainty?” Will asks and adjusts his glasses.  


Hannibal licks his lips, “We must endure uncertainty as a part of navigating the harsh seas of reality- we must endure the uncertainty as a certainty. We never know the state of the waters that lie before us in our journey.” Will blinks slowly, waiting. “But yes, I feel some trepidation at the commencement of this… partnership.”  


“Last I checked, you prefer to work alone.”  


“I still am, in most ways, I’m quite resigned to that.” Hannibal stands and takes his glass of wine to the fireplace, to stare into the crackling embers. “Recently I’ve discovered someone who sees the world differently, or rather, wants to.”  


Will fiddles with the button on his jacket, looks at Hannibal over the rims of his glasses, “Are you starting a collection, doctor?”  


“She has yet to learn to focus the lenses she’s assumed. She stumbles, blindly, constantly constructing monuments to her perceptions and refusing to acknowledge her true purpose.”  


“And you think you can help her focus?” Will joins him at the fireplace.  


Hannibal takes his time to formulate his response, “She will need to learn focus, or she will be… lost to the very work that drives her to look. She lacks your empathy, and I understand why, but until she learns, I worry for her fate. Her work traffics in extremely personal matters, and yet she holds the world at an arm’s length. I find it hypocritical.”  


Will rubs the stubble on his jaw and side-eyes Hannibal, “’She’?”  


The corners of Hannibal’s mouth turn up, “Yes, ‘she’.”  


“What did you start if I may ask? You didn’t say before.”  


“She is making something for me. I don’t yet know what, or how it will turn out, it depends on a lot of things. She teeters on a precipice that could plunge her into any number of outcomes.”  


“You know, I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned a woman to me before, outside of… strictly professional contexts. Is this the same context? It’s a little hard to tell,” Will is still studying Hannibal and takes a sip of his own wine.  


Hannibal raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, “It’s hard to tell for me as well. She’s… attractive, yes, objectively. She’s smart, quick, talented at what she does... for all its unrefinement.” He trails off in thought.  


“Doesn’t sound professional to me, Doctor.”  


Now it’s Hannibal’s turn to side-eye Will, and Will acts like he doesn’t notice. “Cassandra presents a unique opportunity, for me and you, actually.”  


“Mmm, we have a name now,” Will quips sarcastically. “And what opportunity might Cassandra present for me, if I’m not the one playing ‘Hot For Teacher’.”  


Hannibal ignores the jab and sips his wine, swirling it in the glass. “You have mentioned in the past that the Chesapeake Ripper sees himself as an artist- it’s why he puts so much effort and care into his work, down to the finest details… have you ever considered getting another artists point of view?”  


Will ponders this for a moment, “Asking an artist would justify the Ripper’s killing as art, legitimize him in his purpose. He doesn’t need a critic; I don’t think he’s stable enough.”  


“You don’t have to tell the papers, but she’s educated in art theory. It’s something to consider, a new point of view.”  


“My job here is to consider new points of view, it’s what Jack keeps me around for and it’s what has worked so far. And at any rate, I think I would ask an art historian, if I really needed a second opinion,” Will replies. Hannibal enjoys the indignation in his voice… Could Will be jealous?  


Hannibal shakes his head, “What good is the historian, masters of memorization and regurgitation, when you could have a true practitioner, someone that lives what they preach?”  


Will tilts his head side to side, as if weighing the options on scales in his head. “I’m open to suggestions, Hannibal, but I don’t want you new project getting in the way of any investigations. I’ll ask Jack about your idea… I know you have a tendency to scratch at itches until they become festering wounds.” The investigator swigs the rest of the wine and returns to the chairs, placing the empty glass on the side table. “Will I get to meet her?”  


“Possibly,” Hannibal smiles. “Like I said, it depends on a few things.”  


Five days later, Hannibal wakes up to an email on his phone and grins at the subject line, “meeting extension.” Cassandra’s tools keep malfunctioning, and until she can get parts ordered specially from the manufacturer, work on his piece would have to stop until then, and their weekly progress meeting would have nothing to discuss. Hannibal replies, insisting she come and borrow his tools (they’ll be well cleaned beforehand, it’s not a problem at all), because as it would happen, they both use similarly delicate saws and multi-tools.  


Cassandra replies some time later, no doubt after a conversation with Joan Pomm. He can feel the trepidation though her message, her hesitancy to cause inconvenience was… sweet, really. But she is right to fear him, even if she does not yet know why. That fear would evolve in time, and she would evolve, too.  
Hannibal cleans up breakfast with renewed vigor. Cassandra will be here tomorrow afternoon, and there is much work to be done.  


#### VI

I have no business being here. The huge building looms in front of me, and I weigh the pros and cons of texting Joan that I’m backing out of this meeting and Dr. Lecter will have to wait a week while my Dremel parts arrive, but that would also mean another week without seeing him…  


I sigh, press my forehead to the steering wheel, and turn off my car. The sudden silence after my Kings of Leon cuts off is deafening, but I gather my things and force my heavy legs to the front door. On the doorstep, I run my fingers through my hair and straighten my wool skirt. I dressed up, admittedly, but only so I wouldn’t feel so underdressed inside this massive fortress. Before I press the doorbell, I take a deep breath and review my practiced reactions to whatever questions he may have about my work. I need to focus, get in, get out, get back to work. Dr. Lecter’s doorbell rings, deep and melodic, and he opens the door promptly.  


“Cassandra, welcome, please-“ he steps back and I cross the threshold. “May I take your things? Your coat?”  


“Oh, sure, thank you,” I remove my jacket, revealing the red cable-knit sweater underneath. It’s one of the only things I own from JCrew, but it seemed appropriate. His eyes glance me up and down and I’m validated in my choices.  


“No coveralls today,” he notes, hanging my jacket and tucking it into his entry closet with the efficient neatness I’ve already grown accustomed to.  


“Nope, didn’t think I’d be getting that messy,” and before he replies I offer up a canvas sack. “I brought you some persimmons, from my trees, they’re very close to ripe.”  


Dr. Lecter’s eyes light up and he accepts my offering graciously. “These are beautiful, but what happened there?” He nods to the bandage around my left palm.  


“This is what happens when you try to fight an uppity bandsaw. It quit on me this morning, so, I guess all my tools are rebelling now.” I hold my hand up for him to examine. Blood started to seep though where the cut was deepest despite my best efforts. “It’s an occupational hazard,” I say with a shrug. “I’m usually cut up in some way.”  


He raises an eyebrow, “If it’s bleeding like that still, it may be cause for a trip to the emergency room.”  


I shake my head, “I don’t really… do hospitals. Not anymore, anyway. Besides, being an independent artist means the whole ‘health insurance’ thing isn’t in the cards for me.”  


He tuts, and regards me again with a strange, piercing look. “Come, let’s put these in the kitchen,” he leads the way though the most sumptuously decorated foyer I’ve ever seen. My boots clack on the marble floor and I admire Dr. Lecter’s tapered frame through his black turtleneck sweater. His causal clothes are still cashmere. 

“They will need to ripen on the counter a few more days, to ease the tannin content,” he says carefully placing the dozen or so persimmons in a straight row on his kitchen island. A half-finished charcuterie board takes up the other half of the counter. “I was secretly hoping I might get to try one of your fruits, but I never expected so many,” he smiles at me coyly.  


I wave it off, “There’s two huge trees and it’s just me and Apollo there, so I take every opportunity to pawn them off on anyone I can.” I scan his kitchen. Neat, stylish, ornate, as expected. The space lacks the level of décor in the foyer, but the different textures of stainless steel, marble, and butcher block mix well. Joan did mention he’s enthusiastic about food.  


“Well, pawn away,” he says, lining up the last fruit and folding the canvas back neatly. “You know, the persimmon represents enlightenment and transformation, for the way the fruit ripens from the dry tannins to the sweet saccharine.” Dr. Lecter looks at me pointedly.  


I consider that, whatever it means, and offer him a diversion: “The first time I had a persimmon, it was so underripe I thought I was having an allergic reaction.” He laughs with me and strides to his huge double-door stainless steel fridge. It’s well stocked, everything is labeled with masking tape and marker.  


He returns with some paper-wrapped parcels. “The tannins in an underripe persimmon put the driest of red wines to shame, but if one can be patient, they are one of my favorite fruits. You’ll have to come back when they’re ready, and I’ll make them into a tart.”  


I rest my elbow on the counter, chin on the heel of my hand, “I should have known better than to think this would be an easy pop-in, pop out visit, shouldn’t I”  


He inclines his head and turns his eyes on me, “Do you already know me so well?” He’s got the slightest mischievous smirk and his voice carries hints of teasing and, threat, possibly? The kitchen light moves over Dr. Lecter’s cheekbones hypnotically. I again think of the portraits I could render.  
vI look away, he got me. “No, but when you’re making art for someone, you tend to get to get to know them in ways most strangers don’t get to know each other.” I think of the sketches and schematics we’ve exchanged through email. What he wants is going to push me in a lot of ways, but he’s compensating accordingly.  


“I’m sure,” Dr. Lecter turns back to his cured meats and cheese. “But you are correct, I rarely let a guest leave my home with an empty stomach, and you are no stranger.”  


“And it would be rude of me to decline, ask for the Dremel, and leave, right?”  


“Unspeakably so,” he doesn’t look up from the slab of prosciutto he slices so thin I can see the knife through the pieces. “Our relationship would never recover and I would withdraw my commission…”  


“And Joan would disown me, I get it.”  


He looks me dead in the eyes and there’s a beat of silence before he cracks and snickers, and I laugh too. It’s like he has a switch he flips when he wants to be unsettling and prying, and one for charming and handsome.  


He stops then and puts down the knife, “However, it’s I that have been rude. I haven’t offered you anything to drink.” He braces himself on the counter then, and I get an eyeful of his muscles moving under the cashmere of his sweater, the lines of his neck flexing under the high collar.  


My bandaged hand throbs and I clutch at it with a small wince, “Coffee would be great, I usually need one as my final push through the day about this time.”  


“Don’t we all?” he glances at my hand again. “I could look at that, if you like, I was a surgeon before I was a psychiatrist. It won’t be any trouble at all.”  


It’s tempting. I remember the heat from his hand when he shook it at the gallery opening, but he’s doing enough to weasel his way through my walls with this display of fine meats and cheeses. I shake my head, “No, I’m ok, really, thank you though. I’ll give it a cleaning and a fresh bandage out when I get home. I’ve dealt with worse.” Dr. Lecter reluctantly turns his concerned gaze away and busies himself with whatever that coffee maker of his is. “Like I said, I’m used to it.”  


“If you change your mind, the offer stands,” he pulls a jar out of a cabinet and fishes a chunk of honeycomb, dripping with amber, and nestles it in the middle of his board. I watch him suck a stray drop of honey off his finger and my hand throbs again. Dr. Lecter looks at me, almost guiltily, “Terrible kitchen etiquette, I know, but I can’t bring myself to waste honey. Bees work their entire lives to make a teaspoon, and I think it’s only right to extend to them the reverence for their life’s work I would hope someone would have for mine.”  


“I won’t tell anyone, scouts honor,” I say and he washes his hands. The rolled-up sleeves, the wet hands and sinewy forearms, I feel a blush creep up the sides of my face. I want to throttle Joan for pushing me to make this man like me, get close for the sake of the sell, but also forbidding me from “acting primally,” at least until the piece was completed and the final check signed. Even so, I need to leave. Now. Before I do any number of stupid things. 

“Uhm, would you mind if I checked the Dremel you have is the right one? Just in case, so if it’s not I can complete the order for parts with rush shipping from my phone?”  


Dr. Lecter stays quiet as he dries his hands on a towel and throws it back over his shoulder. The switch almost clicks audibly, and when he looks back at me it is piercing and endless. “We can go down and look at what I have, of course, I’m curious though, why not go buy a new one?”  


“It’s the principle of the thing, I guess.” I gesture widely. “If I paid for something, and got a warrantee, it needs to work. Going to buy a new one lets the company get away with being mediocre… besides,” I cross my arms. “I don’t think it’s broken, but I lost an important coupling, a fiddly little bit, and I tore my studio apart and it was nowhere to be found. It’s not a part I can buy separately, so I have to go to Dremel directly.”  


I follow him to the door on the side of the kitchen, he opens and leads the way down to his basement. “I see, this is a matter of accountability for you.” I follow him into the dark void and clutch the side railing. He descends into the maw of the dark basement without hesitation, and I’m struck with the notion it’s because he knows he is more formidable than anything else that lurks in the dark.  


“And integrity,” I reply, my mouth dry. I take my time with my heeled boots on the concrete steps, and Dr. Lecter reappears at the bottom of the stairs when he flips the light switch. “Also, what’s a psychiatrist need a Dremel and a Multi-tool for?” I shiver at the bottom of the stairs. The far wall is lined with boxes of onions, potatoes, and rows of fermentation barrels. He must use this as a larder when the weather gets cold enough.  


“I am much more than a psychiatrist,” he says, sliding open a drawer holding a wide array of tools, including the same model I use, all complete with the scratches that come with frequent use. “Aren’t you more than an artist?”  


I pick up the Dremel, aware of how close he is standing to me. There’s a singing whistle from the kitchen and Dr. Lecter looks back up the stairs. “Excuse me, I need to see to the coffee. It’s a delicate instrument, but please, take whatever you need.” He touches my shoulder lightly and disappears.  


Hannibal has a lot of tools, for some reason and I resolve to ask about his side hobbies later as I gather all the tools in the drawer. Various excuses to get me out of his house early know around my head. So far, I have Joan texting me with questions about the plants in my installations not doing well, or my neighbor texting me that Apollo got out and needs to be corralled.  


Something catches the corner of my eye, though, and pause to examine a trail of deep red trickling from under a cabinet door. My breath fogs the air and I look over my shoulder at the stairs, still no sign of him. I shift the tools to cradle them all in one arm and reach for the cabinet door. If something is leaking in his basement, I should let Hannibal know.  


The cabinet door swings open and I am face to face with the frosted, empty eyes of two human heads.  


A scream bubbles forth in my throat but comes out as a choked yelp. My legs almost give out, and my hand throbs as my heartrate jumps to sprinting. They stare, empty and grotesque, a man and a woman. The “deep red” is the blood pooling and spilling over the edge. Tools clatter to the ground as I cover my mouth with my hands in shock.  
Now I really need to get out of here. I make another strangled noise and turn to run up the stairs, looking over my shoulder at the heads. I get halfway to the top before I nearly crash into Hannibal, holding two mugs.  


“Hannibal…!” I try to yell again but my mouth is too dry. My boots slip on the concrete steps from the sudden halt, and I feel myself fall backwards.  


The last thing I see is Hannibal reaching out to me.


	4. Help, I've fallen and I can't get up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal Behind The Scenes

#### VII

Hannibal waited at the top of the stairs. Cassandra, unbeknownst to her, was about to run a gauntlet of initial tests. He smiles when he hears her pitiful sound of surprise and fear. She was perceptive enough to notice a tiny trickle of blood, curious enough to open the cabinet door and investigate.  


Her footsteps start up the stairs and Hannibal says a silent apology to his porcelain mugs for what he’s about to do. He starts down the stairs and meets Cassandra as she breaches the halfway point and stops suddenly.  


The frenzied fear in her eyes, the dark hair whipping around her shoulders, it was too perfect. And then she said his name in that breathless, pleading way, and reached out for him even as she fell away in terror. He could have kissed her as he threw the mugs of coffee away to catch her hand, but he held it for a heartbeat, waiting till her body began to tilt backwards. Hannibal let her go, and she tumbled onto his basement floor in a shower of kopi luwak and broken shards of porcelain.  


Cassandra doesn’t stir when she stops in a crumpled heap at the bottom of his basement stairs, and Hannibal presses his fingers into the crook of her jaw and nods in satisfaction at the pulse fluttering there. She hasn’t moved, but Hannibal is ready with a syringe of propofol and quickly rolls up her sleeve to administer the dosage. He only needs a few minutes, but she doesn’t need to wake up before it’s time.  


Drawing a shard of porcelain over the injection point covers his tracks, and he puts two more cuts on her other arm. The small runs and tears in her stockings receive further ripping. Hannibal smooths the hair away from her face and traces a finger around the bruise that’s already forming around her eye. He pauses, studying her face a moment longer, and knicks her bottom lip with the makeshift blade. Just a scratch, really, but as the blood wells, he takes some onto his finger and savors the metallic taste.  


With hair and makeup finished, Hannibal scoops Cassandra up in his arms and she moans weakly in her unconscious state. Her scent is obscured by the coffee dampening her clothes, but he still picks up a mid-range vanilla-based perfume, with base notes of earthiness and mint from her gardens. Cassandra is laid on a towel, to protect the dark blue velvet of his chaise, and he notices the blood-soaked bandage on her hand. Hannibal resolves to tend to that wound when he fixes up the ones he inflicted.  


For now, he leaves her on the chaise and returns to his basement to move the heads of the couple that tried to flee without exchanging information after a fender bender. They were probably relieved when he never contacted them for compensation, but their insolence cost them much more than a new bumper. His heartrate is higher than he’d like, but this is going so marvelously well, he can’t help but be a little excited. Hannibal learned from past experiments like this that the introduction must be swift and jarring, but still digestible. If he gets her through this, the rest of the pieces would fall into place.  


Her own thumb print unlocks her smartphone for him, and his tracking software installs without issue. The modern era presented some stumbling blocks, like cameras and browsing history, but some aspects made his work so much easier.  


The cut on her hand is much worse than she let on and Hannibal debates stiches, but opts for wound tapes, the same treatment as the cuts from the coffee mug pieces. He uses the small scissors in the first aid kit to snip a few pieces of hair into a gauze wrapping and tucks it away. After she’s patched up, Hannibal takes advantage of the opportunity to pour over Cassandra for a few delicious moments. The outfit she picked for him flattered her frame and the smokey eyeliner was lovely before it was smudged in the accident. 

Her breathing changes and Hannibal retrieves the ice pack in his freezer before he uses a tiny vial of smelling salts from his pocket to rouse her.  


Cassandra gasps and moans. Her hands twitch in an attempt to cradle her head, but she doesn’t have that much control. “What the…. Where…?” Her eyes flutter open and close again in a wince.  


Hannibal shushes her, clasping her unwounded hand in his. “Cassandra, it’s alright, you’re safe,” he brushes the hair out of the way and cradles her face with his other hand and her eyes blink and close again tightly.  


“… Hannibal? What… happened?” she lurches upwards, limbs flailing and numb, but Hannibal presses her firmly back into the seat.  


“You had a nasty fall, Cassandra, you need to lie still.”  


“Mhmmmm…” Her head falls to the side, eyes closed.  


“No, no, Cassandra you can’t go back to sleep, here,” Hannibal props her up and she moans in protest. “Focus on my voice, come back, yes, yes, that’s it.” His voice is soft with genuine concern, he can’t have his newest project fail before it’s even started because she fell down too many stairs.  


There’s more awareness in her eyes when they open again, and she focuses on him and realizes he is holding her hand. “Dr. Hannibal…” she slurs and extracts her hand from his grasp.  


He chuckles, “Dr. Hannibal?”  


“You know what I mean,…” She runs her hand over her face and grimaces, “God, everything hurts.” Cassandra closes her eyes and breathes shakily.  


“Have an ice pack,” he presses the bag of ice to the bruised side of her face and she fumbles her hand on top of his.  


“This is a good start, but I need one of these on like, my whole body,” she says, examining her newly bandaged cuts through hazy eyes. “Joan told me to wear heels. This is what I get.”  


“My basement stairs have always been unfortunately slick, after this incident I’ll be installing something to help that, I assure you.”  


She is silent for a time, regaining her wits and coming back to reality more completely. She sniffs, “Why am I… damp?”  


“You took our coffees with you in the fall, I’m afraid. I can get you some dry clothes when you are a little more mobile.”  


Cassandra’s eyes went wide and she took a shuddering breath as she remembered the coffee machine, Hannibal had left to check on the coffee, and she opened that cabinet and saw… “The heads,” she breathed and turned on him with fearful eyes.  


“I’m sorry?” Hannibal’s brow furrowed with concern, but his grip on the ice pack tightened.  


“You, oh my god, there are heads in your basement,” Cassandra said breathlessly and her heavy limbs sprang to life. She thrashed clumsily on the couch and pushed at him weakly. A sob escapes her as she realizes her useless arms were in no shape to fend off the man leaning over her.  


“I have sows’ heads, I boil them for my broth, that’s it,” he catches her wrist in a vice grip.  


“NO they were PEOPLE,” she says loudly, tears beginning to run down her face, pulling futilely against his grip.  


“Cassandra, that’s impossible, please, you need to be still. Do we need to go to the hospital?” He drops the ice pack and presses his hand to the side of her face, as if feeling for a temperature.  


“I need to get out of here,” she searches the room wildly and pushes him away with her free hand.  


Hannibal sighs, “Stay here, I’m going to call an ambulance.”  


She watches him leave, and as soon as he’s out of her line of vision she swings her legs over the side of the couch and pulls herself to a wobbly upright position, leaning on a chair. Hannibal waits in the dining room, listening for what she does. He hears her slowly make her way into the kitchen and to the basement door. Interesting, she thinks she’s trapped in a house with someone that keeps human heads and she doesn’t try to leave. Once she’s started on the stairs, he waits outside the door. She stumbles once or twice, catching herself with a groan or a whine. His cabinet doors begin to slam open and he starts downstairs.  


Cassandra stares at the pigs’ head in his larder with slumped shoulders, holding her bruised cheek.  


“Do I still need to call the EMT’s, or will you behave now?” he says and she jumps. Cassandra slowly turns and meets his eyes. Her gaze is filled with guilt and shame, and more importantly, self-doubt. Hannibal holds his phone up, 911 ready to be dialed.  


“No, I, I’m so sorry,” she says turning back to the pigs’ heads, dripping blood down his cabinet.  


“I picked them up from my butcher this morning. They’re down here because I didn’t want you to run into them in my kitchen while you visited.” Hannibal steps forward and closes the cabinets gently. She won’t look him in the eye and her whole face is red. The swelling around her eye blooms up her temple and down her jaw beautifully. “I didn’t hide them well enough from your keen perception, it seems.”  


She snorts at his comment and he puts his arm around her shoulders, turning her back to the stairs. Her boots snap the pieces of coffee mug and she notices the mess she made when she fell, and the scattered parts of his Dremel kit. “I- I’m so sorry, about all of this. I can’t believe this happened.” She bends to pick up a piece of bloody porcelain and winces, grabbing at her hip.  


“Leave it, come now,” Hannibal takes her hand gently and leads her up the stairs. “I’ll pick up the pieces later. You need to get out of these wet clothes.” She follows him without protest, looking at her freshly bandaged hand. Cassandra sits in the leather chair in his kitchen and Hannibal puts the phone back in its cradle.  


“Now…” he says, grabbing his knife and testing it’s familiar weight in his hand, “are you hungry?”

#### VIII

#### VIII

Heavy cream swirls lazily in my coffee, and I stare into the depths of my (unshattered) mug and silently wish for the leather chair to swallow me whole. Hannibal could call Joan, retract the agreement on these understandably extraordinary circumstances, and I could be out this new project as well as a gallery director that has worked so hard to help make a name for me here in Baltimore.  


Tears threaten and prick at my eyes and I wonder whether they come from my bruised body or ego. Hannibal comes back into the kitchen, holding a bundle of clothes and crouches in front of me in the chair, eyelevel.  


“I brought you some fresh clothes,” he waves the bundle in the air. I don’t reply, and I can feel him staring at me expectantly. “It might be nice to get out of your coffee-soaked clothes, or you can sit here and mope.”  


I huff and meet his eyes briefly, and they are filled with compassion and unmistakable joy. “Why are you so chipper about this?” I fell down his stairs, broke his expensive belongings, and accused him of keeping human heads in his basement, surely any other person would be a little more sober in this situation. I remind myself that Hannibal isn’t normal, because no one that wants the work I make in their home can be normal.  


“Cassandra,” he starts and puts his free hand on my knee. There’s nothing between his skin and mine because my stockings are so ripped from the fall. “In my time as a psychiatrist and before as a surgeon, I have seen all manner of human behavior and much, much, more blood. I’m not upset, or angry, truly, it was all an accident.” His thumb makes small strokes and I swallow hard. “I’m glad you’re alright, and I think the best thing for you now would be to change and have something to eat. To use your words,” he pauses and picks up my hand I cut this morning and my pulse flutters in the wound. “I’ve dealt with worse.”  


I stay quiet for a bit, replaying the past few minutes in my mind. The image of the two heads feels foggy and distant now my fall, but it’s still there, even as the pig heads take their place. I’ve seen worse admittedly, but they were so sudden and crude. After the stress I’ve dealt with getting my show closed and shipped to the pieces’ prospective owners as well as the overextension I’ve done acquiring materials for Hannibal’s piece… it makes sense that I’m seeing things.  


Hannibal’s eyes are kind, his touch is reassuring and a little too hot for me right now. I clear my throat and look him in the eye, “You’re telling me I fell down your stairs and accused you of murder and it’s not even going to be memorable?”  


“There she is,” he smiles. “And, there are other things about you that I’d rather remember… The bathroom is down the hall; you can change in there.” He helps me up and to the bathroom. I’m still a little unsteady and my hip will be sore for a long time, so I’m grateful for his strong forearm helping me along.  


A gasp escapes me when I see my face, at the bruise that stretches from my temple to my jaw. “Oh my god… I really fell hard.” I prod the purple skin gently and wince.  


“Just a bruise, it will fade,” Hannibal says and sets the clothes on the marble counter. “When you’re done, we can put more ice on it.” I nod and he shuts the door.  


Changing clothes is difficult when your entire body hurts. A much larger bruise spreads across my hip, visible even under the fine mesh of my stockings. I shed the stockings, keep the skirt in favor of the silky striped pajama pants, and pull his sweater over my head. It’s red, like my damp one on the floor, but it’s huge and hangs ludicrously off my frame. There’s no helping what remains of my makeup and I resign myself to further indignity at the will of my smudgy mascara.  
I finger the fine cable knitting of his sweater and scan the room, as if looking for witnesses. No one else is in here with me, of course, and I tuck my nose under the collar of Hannibal’s sweater and breathe in deeply. This is ridiculous, but the scent of his cologne mixes with the blood still seeping from my lip fills my head and I luxuriate in another huff.  


Joan is going to kill me, so I might as well enjoy this while I can.  


“Were the pants not to your liking?” Hannibal asks me when I pad back into the room on bare feet.  


“Uh,” I swipe imaginary dust off my skirt. “My skirt wasn’t too wet, and the pants are kind of long, but the sweater is an improvement. Does it need to be dry cleaned?”  


“It does, but I prefer my usual place, so don’t concern yourself over having it washed,” Hannibal says and places the final prosciutto rose on his board. The platter receives the same level of intense inspection I’ve endured many times already, and he steps back, pleased with his array.  


“Great, well, thank you for loaning it to me, it’s… cozy.” His smile fades as I gather my bag and boots.  


“What are you doing?”  


I swivel my head up from my phone, “I think it’s best if I go… I mean, I think I’ve caused enough trouble and I should get back to Apollo. I’ll figure out something else to work on until the pieces I need arrive.”  


“I’m sorry Cassandra but… I can’t let you leave after the injuries you sustained. You can’t fall asleep, so you can’t be alone.” Hannibal crosses the kitchen to me quickly and situates himself between me and the door.  


“I think I’ll be ok, you’ve done enough, really,” I insist and swing my bag over my shoulder, only to exclaim in pain when it bashes against my sore leg.  


“Clearly, you’ve made a full recovery,” he says sarcastically and eases the strap of my bag over my head and tucks it under his arm. “Cassandra, you’re concussed. Ten minutes ago, you were unconscious on my couch. In any other circumstance, I would take you to the hospital. But, given your comments about hospitals earlier and my medical training, I am willing to take the observation on myself.”  


I make an exasperated noise, “Hannibal, no, that’s too much for me to ask-“  


“You haven’t asked me, but I am insisting.” He steps towards me and I step back. As if to punctuate his words, I groan and wobble as the room spins with a sudden fit of vertigo. Hannibal steadies me and says, “Now is not the time for brave faces.”  


My head is still spinning, both with vertigo and the realization that I’m about to be locked up with this man for the whole night, or longer. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  


Minutes later I find myself on the same blue velvet chaise lounge I woke up on, and it finally occurs to me that Hannibal carried me up the stairs. My face is red all over again and I’m glad his décor style is so strangely dark and dramatic.  


Hannibal walks in with his finished platter and it joins the plates and cups on the side table. He gets wine, I get sparking water on account of my head injury. Wine would probably help the time pass, but I need to keep my wits about me, if I’m going to make it through the night ahead.  
He sits across from me in a leather high-backed chair, easing into the seat with the luxury of a man that knows he has all the time in the world. “So, tell me about your grandmother.”


	5. The One Where Plot Finally Happens?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever been so sure of the way something was going to go but then get struck with such inspiration in the middle of a shower that you don't even finish shaving your legs so you can write this new line of events? Yeah me either.  
> I've committed now, to a few things, so action and plot should happen a little more readily now. Thank you for sticking with it this far :)

#### IX

Over the next few hours, Hannibal learns Cassandra’s family history. Some parts flow easily, others he coaxes out of her the way one settles a spooked animal. She resents him for making her stay, but it’s a necessary evil in more ways than one.  


Cassandra’s young life was very solitary, she kept few friends and studied hard under the watchful eye of her grandmother, who ran the “family business” of sanitation. Further prying at the nature of this business was met with even more vague answers. Frequent lone walks in the woods provided the small animal remains that began showing up in her art in high school, and once she received grants for college she scaled up to the larger, more elaborate pieces. Brief periods of teaching work punctuated slower production times, but once she found a few eccentric collectors and gallerists to champion her art, it was easy sailing. She worked like this for several years until her grandmother’s illness brought her back to Baltimore, to him.  


Hannibal listens attentively, like any good host, because every detail she relinquishes gives him endless insight to this great, dark thing that swims behind her eyes. Twice, she stops abruptly in a sentence and withdraws into herself, only to shake her head and continue. It’s hard to argue with the facts: Concussions get results.  


“Nana and my great grandmother are from the Great Depression and lived through many wars… They… went through a lot, lost a lot of people, but they worked hard to make ends meet and find work, always… That’s the story I’m aware of, at least.” She trails off often, gathering thoughts and rubbing the side of her glass. The cogs in her mind click laboriously through the lies she tells him, impeded by the recent head trauma and drugs still swirling in her system. Hannibal is doing his best to get her hydrated and fed, taking care of the injury he inflicted to the best of his capability. Every bite of his homemade prosciutto puts a little more color in her cheeks.  


“And what about your parents?”  


“They died when I was young, and that’s all I know,” Cassandra tells him, raising her palms as if in surrender.  


Hannibal tilted his head in question.  


Cassandra looks in her glass, “I don’t have any memories of them. Car wreck.”  


“Your grandmother didn’t tell you anything about them? No pictures?”  


She shakes her head, “Nana had an… interesting take on death. When someone died, they were gone, that was that… no talking, no mourning, no remembering. It’s what got her though a lot of personal losses when she was younger, and it’s what she did when I was growing up. I know she’s my grandmother on my maternal side, and not much else.”  


Hannibal shifts in his seat, the soft leather creaking, crossing one leg over the other. “And have you mourned, or rather, not mourned your grandmother in a way she would approve of?”  


Cassandra’s bows her head, “No,” she says in a whisper. “Her pictures are still up… and I haven’t taken over the master bedroom or gotten rid of her awful couch.” She swallows hard. “The day after my grandfather’s funeral, she took all the pictures of him down, changed the bedding, threw his clothes away… She burned incense to get his smell out of the house. We kept his chair because it’s comfortable.”  


Wordlessly, Hannibal stands and takes her glass, leaving to refill it in the kitchen. When he returns, he sits on the couch next to her, instead of his chair. She curls into the corner of the seat, unconsciously trying to put space between them and make herself small.  


“Do you feel you were denied a proper goodbye? Or do you feel guilty you haven’t held to your grandmother’s standards?”  


She chews the inside of her cheek, something she seems to do when she’s uncomfortable or searching for a way out. “I was denied a lot of things, Hannibal, and, and, I don’t…” she stops and rubs her temple, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  


“We can talk about anything you like,” he hands her glass back and she takes a few quick sips, scanning him slyly from the corner of her eye.  


“You can take the hat off now,” she says uncurling and reaching for a piece of brie and apple.  


“My hat?” Hannibal inclines his head.  


“Your psychiatrist hat,” she says when finishes chewing and raises an eyebrow. “Just who is working for whom?”  


Hannibal accepts what he discovered alone and what Cassandra has given him to work with. There will be more time for probing later. For now, he has a guest to entertain.

#### X

That ought to be enough fat for him to chew on, surely. I’ve already said more than I intended. My head still throbs and swims occasionally, so under my present circumstances, I think I’m doing alright. Lucky for me, Hannibal is nearly compulsively polite and if I fake enough of a headache, he stops prodding. So, that’s the new tactic. Headaches and evasions.  


I’m ushered back into the kitchen so Hannibal can start dinner.  


“How are your knife skills?” he asks me, eyeing my bandaged hand as he slid a huge chef knife out of a block.  


“I could get by… this is my non-dominant hand anyway.”  


“Do you cook frequently?”  


“Uh, Nana was kind of a lone wolf in the kitchen and then I lived in New York for many years and my ‘kitchens’,” I made air quotes, “Were essentially your butcher block here for a counter, a fridge, and a questionable stoves I think were either older than me or pulled off the street…” A look of mild horror spreads across his face as I talk. “… or both… and I haven’t made a concerted effort to teach myself since I came back to Baltimore and buried my grandmother. So, no, I don’t cook frequently.” I clasp my hands behind my back and bounce on my heels.  


He’s quiet for a moment, pursing his lips, and places the knife back in the block. “I think I’ll handle this then. You can pull up a stool if you like.”  


I scoff dramatically, “I’ve already been fired, great.” I limp to the barstool and swing onto the seat.  


“There will be plenty of time to work on your knife skills later,” he says opening the fridge and pulling out veggies and vacuum-packed pieces of meat. “I do need to fetch an onion though; I’ll be right back.”  


“Careful, the steps are slippery,” I say and he chuckles. “I don’t think I can bridal-carry you up the stairs if you eat it like I did.”  


“How do you know it was a bridal carry?” He says with a weird smile and disappears down the basement stairs.  


I debate leaving in that moment as the blush crawls up my cheeks, but the meat grabs my attention and I lean across the counter to grab a clear plastic parcel. This isn’t your usual foam plate with shrink wrap, or even brown paper from a butcher counter.  


“What kind of meat is this?” I ask when Hannibal returns with his onions.  


“Pork, I buy it directly from the farmer.” The knife is back out and he chops veggies without looking at the cutting board. “Every season or so, I pay for a whole butchered pig. He keeps content, free-range animals, so sometimes it looks different from the mass-produced.”  


“Hmm,” I put the package back on the counter. “Isn’t there something I can do to be useful here?”  


“Your company is plenty, but I suppose you can crush the garlic.” He slides a clean cutting board and knife to me and rolls a head of garlic across the counter.  


“You know,” I begin as papery garlic skin collects on the counter. “Nana used to bake and when I wanted to help, she would have me sift the flour three times, so it was ‘extra fine,’ and this feels a lot like that.”  


He snickers under his breath, “Not at all, the garlic is an important contribution. Flour never needs to be sifted, though, sorry to say your efforts were in vain.”  


“I knew it,” I say and grind the cloves under the flat of the blade to release the skins.  


“What did your grandmother bake?”  


“Her baklava was always in high demand with the, ah, house guests we had growing up,” I keep my eyes on separating the cloves. “She learned from her mother, but the gene for handling filo dough without wanting to set the kitchen on fire skipped me.”  


He nods sagely, “Filo is a cruel master, your grandmother is braver than me.”  


“Probably.”  


And so the evening continued, much more cordially than I thought it would, given I’m being held prisoner. Either my fall off-lined my ability to catch on to Hannibal’s sporadic bursts of strangeness, or he was genuinely charming and pleasant the whole time. Whichever it was, I feel my guard slip with every passing minute, which isn’t good for someone in my line of work. 

Unfortunately, it’s hot when a man cooks for you. It’s a fact of life, no matter the strange circumstances that lead to the cooking. Hannibal laments that the short notice of my staying means he didn’t have time to plan for as elaborate a meal he likes to serve dinner guests. He insists on my return later so he may redeem himself, and I agree, even as the voice in my head warning me against it fades to nothing.  


He watches me peculiarly when I took my first bite of dinner, but he takes food and hosting seriously so I write it off as concern for my enjoyment. And enjoy it I did. I manage to get dish-drying duty afterwards if I promised to keep my hand from getting too wet.  


Hannibal’s espresso machine hums through many cappuccinos, and the night grows longer and longer. The poetic, meandering way he talks and postulates ideas reminds me of my years in academia, but my professors of old didn’t dress this well. I don’t feel tired, but my temple occasionally throbs and my train of thought derails easily. Hannibal somehow gets through my 20-minute rant about the needs of various plants before he suggests another meal.  


“Has it been that long?”  


“It’s been quite a while, yes, it’s nearly 4 am.”  


“Oh,” I look around the room for a clock and find none. “I had no idea. I don’t have anything scheduled tomorrow but will you be alright?”  


“All of my appointments are later in the day, and I tend to require very little sleep as it is,” Hannibal says and takes his portfolio of pencil drawings from my hands.  


“I guess I am hungry, now that I think about it… It’s hard to tell because I feel god awful as a whole.” I stand and stretch like a cat. Hannibal takes the soft afghan from around my shoulders and folds it neatly.  


“I can’t do much about that, but I can offer breakfast.” Back in the kitchen, Hannibal sits me on the barstool and prep work begins all over again.  


“Breakfast food cures most ailments, I think.” I cover my mouth as a huge yawn washes over me and rub my eyes. “I don’t think I’ve been this tired since my undergrad.”  


“I can pull another espresso shot,” Hannibal looks up at me, but his hands don’t stop their deft work peeling potatoes.  


I shake my head and rub the bridge of my nose, “Thanks but, I think my heart is beating erratically from the six I’ve already had. This is the tired of an all-nighter driven by necessity, not inspiration.”  


Hannibal smiles knowingly, “There’s a difference in those, yes.” The potatoes are chopped into cubes. “Tell me, what was your early work like?”  


“Ehh…. Sloppy. Lots of fake blood. A lot of decisions made for the sake of reaction, not communication. My professors were patient enough with my experimental years, but I’ve circled back” I say and absentmindedly trace the cable knitting on his sweater sleeve I’m wearing. My eyes feel so heavy, my mind fuzzy. “My friends and I used to celebrate after critique with pancakes at the diner close to campus. It didn’t matter if the critique was good, just that we got through it.”  


“When did you start using the human remains? The models of course.”  


Dammit, he’s asking difficult questions again. Difficult for my present state of mind, at least. My brain is too overworked to produce a lie from scratch. “I could pull up some pictures on my phone if you want. It’s hard for me to remember work from so far back.” A sidestep, the move of the night, apparently. Hannibal nods, and then a realization hits me like a ton of bricks. 

“Oh, no, my phone. I haven’t checked it all night.”  


“Were you expecting a call?”  


“No, not exactly, I just…” I nearly fall off the stool in my hurry to find my bag. Hannibal placed it on an end table on the far side of the kitchen, where it’s been out of sight and out of earshot since my attempt to leave earlier. The dread in my stomach grows as claw through the contents till I find my phone, “Fuck, when was this put on vibrate??” I check notifications and swear more. “Hannibal, I’m sorry, I need to go home. Now.” He sets his knife down.  


“I thought we agreed--“  


“No. I’m leaving. You have been so kind, and I can’t thank you enough, but I really…” I trail off in an exasperated noise and try to keep the panic out of my voice as I pull on my boots. This time, my purse goes over the opposite shoulder, so it doesn’t hit my achy leg. Hannibal is between me and the door again, but I sidle around him, and he turns with me, boring holes into me with a rightfully confused look. I’ll excuse my way out of this mess later, for now, I need to get home.  


He follows but doesn’t try to stop me. “What could possibly so important in the real world, at this hour?”  


“It’s personal, Doctor Lecter,” I slip out the front door and hide my limp to the car, calling over my shoulder even as my phone rings again. “But thank you, I’ll let you know how I’m doing tomorrow- er, well, today… You get it.”  


He watches me the entire time I drive away, till I’m out of view of the house, his face shadowed strangely from the streetlights. My phone is still ringing.


	6. In Which We Finally Find Out What The HELL Is GOING ON With Cass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is when it gets gross :)

#### XI

The second Cassandra’s car was out of view, Hannibal opens the closet for his coat, sees Cassandra’s coat she left behind, sighs, and grabs it as well. As he gets into his car, his phone chirps an alarm: Cassandra’s cloned phone was receiving a phone call, and he keys in to listen.  


“Where the fuck have you been?” A man’s voice says harshly.  


“Paolo-“  


“I’ve been calling you for hours, I’ve been sitting on a delivery all night, just who the fuck do you think you are?”  


“Paolo just-“  


“You fucking know how this works, you can’t ignore us…”  


“PAOLO,” Cassandra yells. “I’m sorry, I know I fucked up. I was at a friend’s house and I fell, got banged up bad and needed to recover. I’m on my way back now, won’t be long.”  


There’s a grunt in response and the call ends. Hannibal drops his phone in the passenger seat and grins to himself, she called Hannibal her friend, in addition to her finally using his first name this evening. But, whoever that man is, he is very rude, and Hannibal’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.  


There’s little traffic at this hour, and Hannibal parks his car a few streets away, stealthily climbing through bushes and backyards till he gets a clear view of Cassandra’s house from behind a cluster of shrubs across the street. Hannibal waits in silence and scans the street for any signs of activity.  


Cassandra’s car sits on the road, not in her driveway, and Hannibal sees no lights in the house. Just as He thinks he may have arrived too late, a large van with blacked out windows and no headlights comes into view. It backs into Cassandra’s driveway and the garage door opens just enough for two men to get out of the van and make their delivery. One man a formidable size, the other much shorter in stature, perhaps shorter than Cassandra. The wedge of light from Cassandra’s garage casts long shadows across the dark street. Double back doors obscure the view, but the load is heavy, judging by the grunts of exertion by the smaller man.  


Hannibal strains to hear their conversation. “Marder, you got a lot of fucking nerve making us wait like that,” says the driver. “Jesus, you look like shit.”  


“Way to go, Sherlock. I feel fine, thank you for asking.” Cassandra’s heeled boots come into view under the garage door. Her voice is different. Harder, brusque, efficient. “You could carry these downstairs for me, you know. Be gentlemen.”  


“Well, seeing as you kept us waiting for so long, this is all we have time for tonight.” He laughs darkly, “You’re lucky you picked up when you did- boss was getting’ twitchy.”  


“Yeah, yeah, my sincerest apologies, all that. It won’t happen again.”  


“Diedre never kept us waiting like this, you know.”  


“I’m not my grandmother, Paolo. We’ve been over this.”  


The driver grunts and slams the van doors closed, her garage closes, and the van drives away into the night. The entire exchange took less than 90 seconds.  
Hannibal’s eyes glitter in the dark; he’s never been so intrigued and excited by an inaccurate judgement. He trekks back to his car, waits thirty minutes, and drives to Cassandra’s house.  


Cassandra opens the door with wide eyes and looks up and down her street. “Doctor, what are you doing here?” Her cheeks are flushed and her brow damp, like she’s recently been exerting herself moving something heavy. Hannibal frowns, someone with her recent injuries should not be putting their bodies under any more stress.  


“You left in such a hurry you forgot your coat.” Hannibal hands it over and she takes it hesitantly, still eyeing him suspiciously. “And you didn’t tell me if you arrived home safely and I feared the worst.” Apollo appears in the doorway then, tail wagging and holding his gift pillow. “May I come in?”  


She thinks a moment, nods, and steps aside wordlessly. Her bruises have darkened and between the sweat, the disheveled hair, and lack of sleep, she looks a complete mess. Hannibal notes she’s still wearing his sweater, even though sweatpants replaced her skirt. The house is cloaked in the unmistakable stench of New Deaths.  


“Are you feeling well? Did you handle your emergency?”  


Cassandra clicks her tongue and Apollo sits, “Yes, my neighbor texted me this one got out, I had to come back and wrangle him.”  


“Hmm, seems odd for him, if he’s so well trained,” Hannibal takes the offered pillow.  


“He’s not used to being left alone for long periods of time,” she says flatly and sits on her grandmother’s couch. Apollo trots to her and she cradles and rubs at his huge head. “He has a doggie door and all, but I think this was the first time he was left alone for more than 12 hours in months. Not since all the hours in the hospital.”  


It’s quiet as Hannibal searches the dim living room for signs of Cassandra’s activities in the past 30 minutes. There’s nothing but the smell. He wants to ask, and he knows she would tell him. She’s done well, to hold herself together after a head injury and micro-doses of various drugs all evening, and now Hannibal is curious to see how much she can take. Again, he resolves to wait until he can pull out what he wants to know in such a way she thinks she tells him of her own volition. He can test, push, prod, for months if need be.  


“I’m not trying to be rude, Hannibal, but I’m really tied after, uh, all this, and…” She trails off, looking at him apprehensively.  


Hannibal studies her a moment longer, vaguely aware of the desire to touch her bruised cheek again. “I only wanted to make sure you got home in one piece. You’ll let me know how you feel later in the day, I trust? I can see myself out.”  


She nods and he turns. His hand is on the doorknob when he hears her sigh, and he smiles to himself. “Hannibal,” she says quietly.  


“Yes?”  


Cassandra’s brow creases with intense concentration and she opens her mouth to say something and closes as she reconsiders. Her eyes flash to him and away again, and finally she takes a deep, shuddering breath, “Uhm, thank you for the uh, coat.”  


Hannibal’s eyes narrow, but he nods curtly and ventures out into the night, heading home to finish making breakfast for one.

#### XII

#### XII

“You can’t tell strange men all your secrets because they feed you, Cass,” I say into the entryway mirror. I nearly told him. I nearly told him everything, like a blithering dumbass. Pathetic, really, how ready I was to spill the secrets of my entire life to a virtual stranger. It’s so late, or rather, early now, and my bed calls to me.  
But there is work to be done, and I only do this work at night. It’s best to get it over with because by the time I come back to this tomorrow/much later today they’ll be all bloated and smelly.  


Wikipedia defines the psychological definition of compartmentalization as “a subconscious psychological defense mechanism used to avoid cognitive dissonance, or the mental discomfort and anxiety caused by a person's having conflicting values, cognitions, emotions, beliefs, etc. within themselves.”  


Walking into my grandmother’s bedrooms flips a switch inside of me, and I gently tuck the bulk of my learned societal agreements away for the time being. The universal powdery rose scent of old ladies fills my nose. I catch a glimpse of Hannibal’s red sweater hanging limply off my frame in the dresser mirror and pull it over my head, continuing on topless. I kick the corner of the rug over, remove the trick floorboard, and my fingers wrap around a familiar cold smoothness of the trap-door handle. Its hinges are well-oiled, and the door swings up and open without a sound.  


“Compartmentalization allows these conflicting ideas to co-exist by inhibiting direct or explicit acknowledgement and interaction between separate compartmentalized self-states.”  


Apollo whines as I descend into the dark maw, thirty feet down an iron spiral staircase, and I give him the “Sentry” command. He dutifully watches the door, in case of any interruption. I don’t jump or stare fearfully into the darkness because I no longer get to be afraid of such trivial things. There is work to be done.  


At the bottom of the staircase, I sit and rub my aching head, groaning. Work boots go over my bare feet and I forgo the coveralls because I can’t be bothered to wrestle them on for a second time tonight. Mask and goggles, check. Gloves, tripled up, check. Outside the door, I crack my neck; it’s my bodily flagship for the mental state I need to be in. Nana cracked her fingers and my great-grandmother popped her jaw. I feel nearly completely ingulfed by now, by this other entity that performs the tasks I cannot alone.  


Hannibal took me out of my reverie before I was ready, but if I ignored his knocking, there’s no telling what he might have done. What he could have found. Fluorescent lights hum to life, casting a dim, flickering light over the lab. A dozen modified chest freezers line the wall furthest away and glass tanks on shelves lie to my left, their inhabitants shrouded in darkness. I consult a written log briefly: Chests 7 and 8 are due for rotation.  


The stench is difficult, even with years of experience and my mask, but it’s a part of the job. Chest 7 opens and a sound like static or a crumpling plastic bag fills my little lab. My dermestid beetles, dears that they are, picked all of their pieces clean to the bone.  


Dermestid beetles are commonly used in museums and taxidermy to clean delicate specimens of flesh and forensic scientists use them to preserve evidence conventional cleaning methods could destroy. I use them to clean the bones of my boss’ more sensitive murders. Crime lords don’t mind a certain level of responsibility, and allegations are necessary to build reputation and fear. But some disappearances are best left mysterious and once I receive a body, it’s never found again. Such is the specialty of the Marder family and the legacy started by my great-grandmother over a century ago.  


The process is lengthy; it can take my beetles a month to consume a grown man. However, a buried body retains DNA evidence for eternity, and corpses tend to be fished out of bodies of water at the most inopportune times. Beetles are a renewable, sustainable option, all contained in their chests and kept deep under the family home. No quicklime, no acids, nothing I may need tricky licenses or aliases to buy. No burning or venting of odd flesh-scorching scents. Only consumption. Just the rancid smell of animal waste, which is perfectly normal for how many plants I own inside and out. Dermestid beetle castings and bone meal make an excellent fertilizer.  


I pluck a skull from the writhing mass, dusting away any clingers on. I don’t know who this was, and it doesn’t matter, the skull goes into a glass tank with my other invertebrate friends: Giant snails.  


Snails need to consume calcium for the health of their shells, and their gentle scraping sounds add to the chorus of beetles as I open tanks and shift bones around. They work slower than the beetles, but that’s alright, because there’s nothing left to find when they’re done. The invertebrates I work with today are direct descendants from the colonies great-grandmother started so long ago, and they have since adapted to the high-calcium diet. I supplement with veggies of course, but they tend to prefer the bones.  


I keep one spinal column for Hannibal’s sculpture and softer bones like phalanges and ribs are put aside for bone meal. The bones I keep for art go through so many cycles of bleaching and baking and coats of resin, there’s almost nothing left to test, were someone to get too nosy. I set a pelvis inside one of the tanks and peel few softball-sized snails off the glass surface, placing them on their new project.  


“There ya’ go, hop to it fellas.” Their eye stalks wiggle in excitement.  


That brings me to tonight’s delivery.  


Hannibal knocked on the door right as the draining started, and by now their bodies are as emptied of blood as I’ll get them. I don’t know who these two are, a man and a woman, similar to the imagined heads I saw in Hannibal’s basement. Their identities don’t matter and it’s not my job to know or ask, only to take care of the remains. I shake my head through a spell of vertigo and use an automatic lift installed in the ceiling to maneuver them to the stainless-steel worktables. They came to me naked, which might be concerning to some people, but for me it means I don’t need to figure out clothing disposal. The woman’s body is bruised around her hips, but I assume not from a fall down a set of stairs.  


I use the one remaining working saw in my home to separate the bodies into easier-to-carry pieces. This saw isn’t suited for deep cuts, so I’m coated in more gore than usual. The high-pitched whine as the blade chews through bone fills the lab. Organs are frozen till they’re needed later, and piece by piece, this mystery couple finds their final resting places among my insects.  


Any mess gets washed down the drain in the floor, and I allow myself to put off the rounds of bleach off until after I’ve slept. A shower stall by the entrance lets me cleanse myself of any evidence of the work I’ve done, washing away the faces I’ve shut away and doomed to unknowing.  


I shiver the entire climb back to the real world, leaving behind a secret that precedes me by a century. It finally occurs to me as I breach the trap door, what it is about Hannibal that unnerves me so much. His influence blurs the separation I keep between the cultivated cover I present to the world and the person I must be to do my job. The only thing more important than the work I do is the constant upkeep of a persona that certainly would never keep a bunch of human bodies in her basement as bug food. This further explains why I saw what I saw in Hannibal’s basement… But it also raises the question of why he has this effect on me.  


Apollo crawls into Nana’s bed with me because I don’t trust my legs to take me to my own room. I fall asleep clutching Hannibal’s sweater, wet hair splayed across the pillow, and Apollo at my back. The questions I have are for another time, and I fall into the deepest sleep I’ve ever experienced.


	7. Special Consulting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra meets Will and hurts Hannibal's fee fees. I'm putting off the smut till next time, oops.

#### XIII

Hannibal kept a close watch on Cassandra’s phone activity in the coming days. She receives another “delivery,” and Hannibal scowls and quells his rage at the recorded phone call.   
“Marder, sweetheart, got another one for you, gonna be there in a couple hours.”   
“Paolo, I’m at capacity, take it to the Rescue. And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” Cassandra replies. Her voice is different again, like he heard it the night he followed her home.   
“Sure thing, babe. And no, the Rescue is three hours outside of town. They’re for big deliveries, you’re for the petty shit. Buddy of mine got into it in a poker game and fucking went sideways.”  
“I’m not a clean-up service for your scummy friends. I’m for professional work only.”  
“You,” Paolo’s voice gets harder, louder. “Are for whatever the fuck we need you for, honey, in case you forgot, and you’re still playing catch up.”  
Cassandra scoffs. “Maybe your friend should get better at playing poker. If you overload me, I can’t promise such complete disposal.”  
“No, no, you fuckin’ listen to me, bitch,” Paolo begins, angry now.  
Cassandra makes an exasperated noise. “Fuck you, Paolo, you are the most unprofessional handler we’ve ever had, by far, we never dealt with this shit from Gio,” Cassandra shoots back and Apollo whines in the background.  
Paolo is quiet for a moment, and his voice returns with a dangerous edge. “Gio isn’t here anymore, and there’s no more ‘we,’ you goofy bitch, it’s just you, and you are getting a delivery in two hours, whether you like it or not,” he says and the call ends.  
This exchange took place four days ago. Today, after repeated asking on his part and debates between Cassandra and Joan Pomm via text, Cassandra is coming to Hannibal’s office to meet Will Graham and afterwards, to Hannibal’s home for dinner. Joan, blessed fool she is, urges Cassandra to his every whim, blinded by his money and status in the Baltimore elite. Cassandra appears hesitant to engage in further in-person interaction with Hannibal, citing embarrassment over her fall and desires to keep professionalism. Joan dismisses both, encouraging her to make friends and try to adapt to life in Baltimore now that her grandmother is gone.   
“I thought you knew how to play these types? Bat your eyelashes, humor their weirdness,” Joan said a text.   
“I do, they’re easy. It’s different with him, I can’t explain it.”  
“LOL is it just because he’s not fat and ugly like your other buyers? Batting your eyelashes for real?” Joan shot back and followed it with a blushing emoji. Cassandra didn’t reply to her comment and sent a photo of some preserved swallows that arrived in the mail. Coarse as she is, Joan is making Hannibal’s work easier. And he already knows what it means with Cassandra sidesteps a direct question.   
A knock comes from his office door, and Hannibal rises to answer. He straightens his dark red tie, brushes imaginary dust off the camel colored suit jacket, and opens the door to his waiting room. Cassandra turns away from the painting she was examining and gives him a small smile.   
“Do you have an appointment?” Hannibal says, grinning.  
“Special Agent Marder, reporting for duty,” she says and looks again at the painting on Hannibal’s wall. “Or whatever it is they say,” she smiles. Her deep blue dress flatters her skin tone and dark eyes, and Hannibal catches a whiff of her familiar vanilla and herbal scent as she brushes past him into his office. He hangs her coat by the door.  
Will Graham stands from his seat and nods to Cassandra but does not offer a hand to shake. She doesn’t seem bothered by this as she takes in the high ceilings and shelves of books in Hannibal’s office.   
“The title of Special Agent still requires some training, your role is more of a Specialist Consultant, or the like,” Will says.  
Cassandra turns her attention to him then, scanning his plaid flannel and scuffed shoes as her face falls from wonder at her surroundings to colder appraisal. Hannibal appears between them and makes introductions. “I’ll try to consult as specially as I can,” Cassandra remarks and sits in the velvet chair Hannibal provides, crossing a stockinged leg over the other.  
“Hannibal is confident you might be able to provide some insight and I’m here on his merit. Are you familiar with the Chesapeake Ripper?”  
“I was not, until Hannibal told me what kind of consultation work I would be providing. I did my own research…” Cassandra accepts the glass of wine Hannibal materializes with at her shoulder. “He’s been on the loose for a long time.”  
Hannibal passes wine to Will and sits with his own glass in his usual chair. Will retrieves a file from his bag and tucks it under his arm before sitting. Their host is content to watch his guests figure each other out in their own ways and enjoys the distinct satisfaction of his work being discussed by those unaware of his identity. He relishes in the forms of the two humans in front of him, Will with his boyish, unkempt appeal and Cassandra with her calculated charm, same as when he met her at Folle. She possesses an uncanny ability to maintain an aura of interest without inciting investigation and a false, brittle approachability that throws off suspicion she could be hiding something. It works well on most people, Hannibal noted during multiple periods of observation.  
“Yes, he is, and he may become active again soon,” Will says, bringing Hannibal back from his reverie. “Did Hannibal tell you the nature of what I do for the FBI?”  
“He glossed over it briefly, I think he wanted to leave the explanation to you.”  
Will glances at Hannibal, who maintains a vaguely amused but inscrutable expression. “I have, what the layman might call a very over-active imagination. It allows me to step into the shoes of just about anyone. I can understand their motivations and what moves they are likely to make next.”  
“And you use this to catch murderers?” Cassandra asks.  
“A few now, yes. But Hannibal thinks you might have a different point of view I can’t access because of your experiences.”  
“He told me,” Cassandra’s eyes flash to Hannibal, who remains motionless. “Of all the artists and professors in the city, the state even, why me?”  
Will shrugs and raises his palms, “That’s between you two. But you’re here and your art, from what I’ve seen, fits the profile.” He gives her a dry smile.   
Cassandra sips her wine, “And what profile is that?”  
Will makes a noncommittal sort of noise, “Your sculptures don’t have flesh on them, but if they did…” He trails off and looks to Hannibal for input.  
“Cassandra’s work allows us to revel in macabre decadence and the shockingly opulent without guilty consciences,” Hannibal says smoothly.  
“I suppose we could say that,” Will nods, not noticing the hard glint that flashed in Cassandra’s eyes. “I’ve said in the past that the Ripper thinks of himself as an artist, among other things, and given the similarities between your, ah, installations, you could shed some light on the subject.” He wields the thick file and looks to Hannibal, “Are you sure about this?”  
Cassandra holds her hand out for the file without waiting for Hannibal’s response and after a brief non-verbal communication between Will and Hannibal, Will hands the file over. Hannibal watches her reactions closely and Cassandra takes her time flipping through the photos. Her pupils dilate, her breathing and pulse change, and she winces at more than a few of the images. The “edge” comes back, warping the space around her into a protective boundary. Cassandra’s eyes blink slowly, and she rubs at her temple. The bruise there faded from deep purple to mottled green and yellow as the evidence of her fall dissipated. She knew better than to try and cover it with makeup, but the diffused smokiness of her eyes and dark swoop of her lashes next to the fading bloom struck Hannibal as art in its own right.  
“Would it be rude of me to ask about the nature of your injury?” Will says leaning forward and looking into his wine glass.  
“Which one?” She looks up from the photos expectantly.  
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I don’t mean to pry.”  
“I fell down Hannibal’s basement stairs,” she says flatly and resumes her looking. Will narrows his eyes at Hannibal. The psychiatrist takes a drink of his wine and ignores the pointed stare.   
“Stroke of luck, falling in the house of a doctor,” Will stretches his long legs across the floor.   
“It looks worse than it was, and it would have been luckier if I didn’t fall to begin with,” Cassandra studies the photos a few moments longer and flips back through a few. “I’ll try to be as… objective as possible, approach this the way I did my students when I taught, ignore the whole ‘dead people’ aspect.”  
“How long were you a teacher?” Will asks.  
“On and off, a few years at the college level,” Cassandra says laying a few photos down on a coffee table. “I quit to focus on my practice and because I was ‘too mean’.”  
“How were you mean?” Hannibal asks his first question of the night, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He knows what she’s capable of, to an extent, but that this guarded, careful woman that tries to keep attention off of anything remotely specific about herself could be “mean,” is intriguing.   
“I’m a stickler for craftsmanship and presentation, and I wouldn’t let my lazy students skate through on flowery language,” Cassandra replies, and Hannibal’s appreciation of his artistic project grows by that much. “- this here- this isn’t the same person.” Cassandra separates pictures of a man with the neck of a cello sticking through his eviscerated throat.   
“How do you know?” Will asks and Hannibal gives him a quizzical look. “What? I can apply my own tests.”  
“It’s a more juvenile student. Not as developed in… style,” Cassandra swallows hard. She’s quiet as she rearranges and adds or removes certain photos. “Mr. Graham, your artist is either very bored or is suffering from intense artist block.” Neither see Hannibal’s eyes narrow minutely.   
“Artist block?” Will laughs hesitantly.   
“I could be wrong. But… in all my time in the New York art scene, I’ve picked up a few things,” Cassandra leans back in her chair gestures into the air. “All artists possess a certain level of vanity, regardless of any other uh, issues,” she casts an uneasy glace at the table of photos. “They, we, crave recognition, praise, understanding, things like that, even the shy ones,” she taps the photo of a woman labeled “Michelle Vocalson”, depicting a torso missing a few limbs hanging from an overpass. The woman’s head was removed and hung from her single foot with a length of red silk.   
“… This is shy to you?” Will asks incredulously.   
“Well, yes, in a way… it’s safe, nothing is at stake here. This person is taking very few chances,” She splays her hands wide and Will looks the fading scar on her left palm. Cassandra notices Will noticing and closes her hand, “Everything about these is ‘just enough’ to get the point across, and this person will probably keep making these statements until it clicks and he finds a different tree to bark up,” She finally returns her attention to Hannibal, who remained quiet nearly the whole time, and does not react to her words.   
“Ms. Marder, it almost sounds like you think you can do better,” Will tilts his head. He understands Hannibal’s interest in her now. They share a similar confidence in their work and specialties, reveling in lording it over people and disguising it as gentle education. She lacks Hannibal’s grandiose pretentiousness outside of the context of the work she makes, but Will knows Hannibal is always willing to mold and elevate simple components to fit his vision.  
Cassandra shakes her head, “Our work isn’t going for the same effect. Similar materials, different statements. I mean, objectively, again, the design isn’t bad, it’s just that every piece is derived of itself or the one before it.”  
Hannibal’s face is blank and impossible to read as he grapples with the words he’s hearing. He expected a gentler criticism, he wanted to see if she could understand, but instead she ripped his displays apart and laid the Chesapeake Ripper’s legacy bare. Hannibal takes a controlled breath through his set jaw and Cassandra gives him a glance laced with worry.   
“Hannibal, is everything alright? Did I say something wrong?”  
He licks his lips and swirls the wine in his glass, “No, you’re likely correct. I don’t imagine Will’s killer has a wide circle of influence.” He realizes his words are true even as they come out of his mouth. He hasn’t felt inspired in months, years maybe, but he’d hoped for more from this examination. Killing had become little more than grocery shopping trips with extra steps, but his ego stung from the lashing Cassandra doled.   
“I didn’t say that. I said it’s safe. It means he isn’t challenging himself. There’s lots of influence here, he’s an Italian Renaissance and Baroque fan for sure,” Cassandra sifts through the photos. “This is a pieta, and this is a Bernini.” As those words leave her mouth, she casts another uneasy glance at Hannibal, the last person that showed her a Bernini sculpture.  
“We know it’s a pieta, Ms. Marder. We want to know what he might do next,” Will says and braces his head against his hand, elbow over the back of the chair.  
“He’s… rowing in circles in a shallow gene pool… in a vacuum,” Cassandra rubs her temple again and sighs. “There’s influence, but there’s no one in the same line of work, no one to compete against or compare notes with. I saw it in students that tried to lock in on specialties too quickly. If they’re lucky, they become low-level collector fodder, office space backdrops, and the unlucky ones become nothing and switch careers.”  
“I don’t think the Ripper is about to change his career. He’s changed methods before but he always leaves a signature. What is he likely to do next?”  
“Or, what do you do, when you experience an artist block?” Hannibal and grips the arms of his chair tightly. For all its hurt, Cassandra has yet to say anything untrue or outright cruel, but Hannibal’s gears turn and his resolve shifts. She won’t be getting out of this easily, if ever.  
Cassandra clears her throat. “There will be a drastic change in style, or he will return to the fundamentals. Whatever those are for him. If he’s young, he will find a teacher. If older, he will search for a pupil, or disciples. I’ve seen many a clingers-on to the wiser, more experienced favorites of the art scene. Sometimes assistants or interns.”  
“You return to the fundamentals when you feel uninspired?” Hannibal asks.  
Cassandra shrugs, “My professors told us- made us- practice old masters’ anatomical studies when we said we didn’t know which direction to go. I made my students do it as well. The boredom, the drudgery, acted as a hard reset and your brain would kickstart with better ideas. Or, that was the theory. It was either that or get drunk and play Exquisite Corpse.”  
Hannibal inclines his head and Will raises his eyebrows.  
Cassandra continues hesitantly, “It’s a parlor game from the surrealist period… get a group of people, fold up a piece of paper into different parts, and everyone takes a turn drawing on a part without seeing what everyone else drew, or wrote maybe, and then the paper is unfolded to reveal whatever absurd finished whole.”   
“We should play,” Hannibal suggests brightly. “We’ve already put three minds together on one question, we should see what else they create together.”  
Will takes off his glasses and examines them for smudges, “I think I’d be a little outmatched. Doesn’t feel like a fair fight.”  
“No, the bad art is the best part,” Cassandra reassures him. “It’s timed, anyway, so no one has a chance to monopolize on the spotlight. The point is not to take it seriously and let impulse take over.”  
“Hmm, when I let impulse take over, I end up with a new dog.”  
“It’ll be enlightening,” Hannibal stands and fetches a paper and three pencils from his drawing desk across the room. The paper folds into crisp thirds and Hannibal passes his guests the other two pencils.  
“Start with the head and neck, maybe some shoulders, and extend some lines into the next section so I have something to go off.”  
“What exactly will this accomplish?” Will asks, disgruntled.   
“Think of it as a bonding exercise,” Hannibal says, pencil poised over the paper. Cassandra starts a timer on her phone and nods for him to begin.   
“I feel closer to you two already,” Will grumbles and swigs the last of his wine.  
Three minutes are up, and Cassandra takes her turn on the torso, Will finishes the piece with the legs.   
“And, viola,” Cassandra says unfolding the paper to reveal the finished piece. She drew from her sketches of Hannibal’s work in progress, a ribcage with sparrows flying between the bones and a magpie trapped inside, rendered in a messy and loose style. Will’s childishly scribbled lower body of fisherman’s waders in a river with multiple fish complete the bottom, but the top of the piece is what keeps Cassandra’s attention.  
“I think I won,” Will quips.  
Hannibal watches Cassandra inspect his work yet again. He only had three minutes, but the contours of her face are unmistakable. The curve of her nose, down to the swell of her lips, and the arched, dark brows over nearly black eyes. Her neck connects to the ribcage of birds perfectly.  
Cassandra licks her lips and folds the paper, concealing her likeness, “Doctor Lecter, should you leave psychiatry, you have a promising career as a portrait artist.” She says nothing more on the subject and tucks the paper away.  
Will stands and runs a hand through his hair. “This was fun,” he says dryly, “But Ms. Marder did have a few good points. I’ll talk to Jack, see if we can goad the Ripper into making a move with Freddie.” Hannibal smiles at this. He’s already thoroughly goaded, but if Freddie Lounds gives him room to make the “statement” Cassandra wants, then the wait will be worth it. Will collects his images and goodbyes are said.   
Hannibal closes the door behind Will and glowers at the back of Cassandra’s head. Her reckoning will come in time. Since the last time she was at his house, circumstances had not aligned for Hannibal to investigate as closely as he prefers. She leaves her house seldomly, in short bursts, and every time the tracking software hidden in her phone alerted Hannibal to movement, he was otherwise occupied. Sometimes, optimal conditions must be simulated if one is deeply committed to getting results.

#### XIV

The third time Hannibal asked me over for dinner, I said yes. Then he asked me to meet his colleague and I agreed to that as well. Before today, I wiggled out of it with A) a headache or B) Important artist work with Joan. I find him as relaxing as I do alarming, though, and my mind wanders to him constantly, especially when I’m working downstairs.   
Hannibal touches my shoulder lightly as he walks back and tends to the empty wine glasses. Mine is still mostly full but I place it on the tray anyway.   
“Was that not to your liking?” he asks.  
I shake my head, “It’s not that, I don’t think I should drink heavily with my fall less than two weeks out.” My hands fiddle with the hem of my dress. “And I was nervous about meeting your friend. I don’t think he likes me very much.”  
“On the contrary, I’d say, but Will has difficulty being social. It’s a side effect of his remarkable ability. He will probably take your comments into consideration the next time he arrives on a crime scene,” he says and extends a hand to help me from my chair. It’s warm and strong, as always, and he holds my hand a beat longer than he needs to before flipping it to look at my palm. “Your hand is coming along nicely,” he notes. Hannibal traces the pink line and my fingers twitch at the tickling sensation.  
“I gave myself a new heart line,” I say withdrawing my hand and Hannibal leads the way to the door. Silvery pink scar tissue follows the original crease in my palm and then diverts wildly towards my wrist. Tautness in the new skin growth all but erased the original topography of the middle line.  
“Do you feel your fate has changed, now that you’ve physically reset its course?”  
My hand clenches in a fist in my coat pocket, “No, Hannibal, I don’t think it has.”   
The dress is a relic from the days before college, when I was dragged to Christmas parties and other functions by Nana and expected to act pretty and accommodating, and not mention my role in the system. Then Nana got sicker, and no one wanted a wobbly old woman around, but they still worked her like a dog. We used to have a high standing in the organization; these days I don’t miss the parties, but I miss the respect.   
Hannibal’s home feels more familiar and less intimidating, either because I was here for so long last time, or because I think of coming back a lot. So far, the only menacing intent I’ve detected tonight was in Hannibal’s office when we discussed the Chesapeake Ripper, but now he’s perfectly pleasant.  
In the bright lights of the kitchen, Hannibal stops me and looks the fading bruise on my face, “Do you mind if I look at this?” He asks and I shake my head. His hand cups the unbruised side of my face, and I freeze; I didn’t think this was part of the examination. My head tilts back and to the side, from my own volition or the gentle pressure of his grasp, I’m not sure. His other hand swoops the hair away from my injury and he studies the splotchy green and yellow for what feels like an eternity. When he finally lets go, I release a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding and try to force down the lump in my throat.   
“That’s healing well, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about a thing when it’s gone,” He says, releasing me and my flush keeps the heat from his hands lingering.  
Correction, he’s perfectly pleasant with his usual side of irritating yet harmless idiosyncrasies.  
During prep, I am upgraded from garlic peeler to potato chopper, clad in a spare white apron and allowed more wine. He’s regaling me with stories from medical school and his time as a practicing surgeon because he knows I like the gory details. I’ve never been formerly trained in anatomy, as that would draw attention, but my grandmother taught me how to navigate the human body long ago.   
This is no mob Christmas Party, but Hannibal treats me with the respect and, dare I say, reverence I remember from before I left for school. Nana insisted I leave, get an education, and our superiors approved the distance so long as I kept up an avenue of parts disposal through my art pieces.   
I can’t get the drawing out of my head, though. I knew he practiced portraits, but to render so well in three minutes was… telling. Telling of his skill, but also of how much he must study my face to remember the details so clearly, even with a photographic memory, surely.  
“I enjoyed the earlier images you sent me,” Hannibal says, “Your growth as an artist is apparent, though.”  
I shrug, “We all make our way. Can’t break rules you don’t understand yet.”  
“Do you imagine the stories of your pieces, before they are finished? Before they become parts of a larger whole?” He asks, looking up from the lamb he’s prepping.   
“No,” I say quickly, my knife faltering. “Their stories start when they’re finished.”  
“And how is that?”  
“It’s not about the bodies, the pieces, Hannibal, everyone always thinks that…” I shake my head. “It’s about the communication. The effect. The parts are a means to an end, like the plants or the butterflies. They don’t have stories.”  
He’s quiet for a bit, focusing on the distribution of vegetables and herbs around the lamb in the pan. “I find that hard to believe,” he says finally, closing the meat in darkness under a heavy enameled cast iron lid.  
“Well, that’s why I never tell anyone that. People want to make up their own stories, half the time. What good would it do for me to cripple my work? Deny them that… They actually get to have more stories if I don’t try to give them any.” I say and Hannibal doesn’t reply as he places the pot in the oven. I know he’s formulating another question and I cut him off before he can ask. “How’s my form?”  
Hannibal’s eyes turn on me and I detect frustration as he scans my workstation, either at my evasion or unpracticed kitchen methods. Wordlessly, he moves behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.   
“You’re tense, these are potatoes, you don’t need to bear down on them with all your might. And,” his hands move to my waist and push me forward a step. “You’re a little far from the board.”  
“I more meant, say, if I was holding your knife correctly, but this is fine too,” I say, very aware of his hands still on me. Five seconds ago, I was trying to evade his grasp and now I never want him to let go. The conflict is honestly, exhausting, but the danger of waltzing around this line after a life of living in constant fear of said line is too tempting.  
“Hmm.” He reaches under my left arm and nudges the cutting board more centered to me. “That’s better. And you were holding the knife well, just took an adjustment of positioning.” Hannibal doesn’t touch me aside from his hand on my waist, but I get the distinct feeling he stands as close as he dares to my back. The scent of his cologne lingers long after he returns to his own tasks. We work silently for a few minutes. He, slicing figs and persimmons into translucently thin wafers. Me, struggling to maintain half-inch uniformity in my potato cubes.   
“Are those my fruits?” I ask, nursing my first of, I assume, many glasses of wine.   
“They are,” Hannibal answers as if he wasn’t just full on “Ghosting” me and a cutting board. “I’m impressed by their fragrance, their flavor, for trees growing in a little suburb south of Baltimore.”  
Ah, that would be from the years of fertilizer of distilled human remains. Nothing more nutrient-rich than the leavings of the most over-fed and pampered creatures on Earth. Hannibal takes my potatoes and they go into a pan with various cheeses and herbs. That pan goes on the oven rack under the lamb and in the same motion, Hannibal opens his fridge for a lumpy shape wrapped in cling film.  
“Nana loved those trees. When the spring comes, I hope I can do her garden justice… but orchids and anthurium are a far cry from crops, valuable food people actually want to grow.”  
“While we have domesticated crops throughout the generations into the pliable, manageable plants we know today…” Hannibal trails off as he presses soft dough into a tart pan. “I have more appreciation for the exotic. And you keep parasites in your home, very exotic.”  
I blink at that. My plants of choice prefer to make their homes in the mossy crooks of tropical trees, rarely thriving in conventional soil or growing straight from the ground. Hannibal begins pouring tiny white balls from a jar over the dough. I watch one breech the edge of the pan, roll slowly to the edge of the counter, and skitter over to me.   
“Epiphytes are not parasites,” I say, stooping to pick up the ball. “They don’t hurt the trees they grow on. They’re… stationary passengers.” The ball clatters into the dough with its friends and I know when I look up, he will have that look on his face.  
“What is it about your passengers that draws you, then?” His eyes bore into mine, and I wonder if my neck will hurt tomorrow from all the whiplash in this conversation. “What had you choose the ones that root in nothing, cling to air and the skin of forest giants?”   
“Hannibal…” I shrug my shoulders helplessly. “They’re plants. They’re pretty, more interesting than rose bushes, I don’t know.”  
“I don’t believe that either, Cassandra.” The tart goes into his second oven. “The crust needs to blind-bake before I can finish the tart, but our first courses are ready.” He says but returns his expectant gaze to me. I still need to perform, clap like a seal for my fish. I still like it when he says my name.  
My temple throbs, as it does occasionally still, and I release the inside of my cheek from between my teeth. “I guess… when they grow, when they do well, it’s an outside metric for my own progress.”  
“You could get that from a rosebush, or a lucky bamboo from the supermarket,” he’s arranging platters of food onto a cart.  
“They sell orchids at the supermarket, too. Sometimes a flower is just a flower, Hannibal.”   
He makes a non-committal noise, close to a scoff, and asks me to open the door to the dining room. He wheels the cart laden with our salad and appetizers into the cobalt room, similar to the color of my dress. My roots reach helplessly, spreading, finding purchase on nothing but what lies in front of me.


	8. Instrumental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is taking things into his own hands (duh)
> 
> If it's requested/asked for, I can try my hand at a separate, more detailed and drawn out smut scene to post by itself. Something really long and steamy felt like it would interrupt the flow of the story.

#### XV

Mastery comes easily to Hannibal. Instruments, hobbies, languages, all taken in stride and tucked away. Women are no different.  
But sometimes, with Cassandra, Hannibal feels like a cat trying to find traction on a frozen lake. His claws will catch, and just as quickly slip, leaving him to scrabble uselessly on the surface. He could sit and wait, patiently, as he’s done for close to a month, but now the thaw is taking too long. Her words tonight goaded him into action. She brought this on herself.  
Hannibal prepares to rise and throw his weight at the glassy surface, so that he might finally plunge into the depths of what lies below. He can only hope it’s as shocking and bracing as jumping into an actual frozen lake.  
Aside from these moments, when she dances (or sometimes stumbles) out of the way of his inquiries, Cassandra Marder is still a woman. If she wants risk and statement, she will have it. Cassandra plays easily enough, could use some fine tuning, but she does well in hiding her flushes or switching the subject. It’s admirable she still clings to an ideal of professional courtesy, still attempts to keep him at arm’s length when she realizes she slipped too far into a smile or comment. Hannibal allowed her this sanctuary only while he bid his time, weighed his options.  
She’s tried, bless her heart. She could have told him, and he might have lost interest. She could have been less intriguing, less resistant to his questions, hid her true colors and knowledge better. She could have worn something other than the blue silk that clings to her now.  
But here Cassandra sits, at his dining table, the lines of her throat and collarbone curving and peaking over her low neckline. Hannibal sets a plate of a salad in front of her. ‘Salad’ is a crude term for the seasonal Fall vegetables and fruits, served warm and adorned with the wings of migratory monarchs. Faint marks from his work with the shattered porcelain mug hide, partially obscured by the gauzy, sheer fabric of her long sleeves.  
Hannibal fills her wine glass from a carafe and takes his seat.  
“You’re throwing an awful lot of wine my way, Hannibal,” she says, sipping from the crystal.  
He shrugs, “Wine is an important part of the meal- more a collaborator than an accompaniment. To be stingy with the wine with a meal like this would be a travesty.”  
She’s finally getting wise, he knows she knows, she knows he knows she knows, it’s all very coy. Very two steps forward, one step back. Cassandra is still mulling it over, so Hannibal must make the decision easier. Rather, she will think it’s a decision, and that’s what matters.  
“I didn’t have it in me to attempt Nana’s Fall garden this season… It’s a shame, you could have done so much with her autumn harvest.”  
“And if you didn’t have me to take all of it, what would you have done?” Hannibal slides his knee against hers under the table. He moved her chair a few inches closer to his when setting the table so he could do this very thing. She falters in her thinking for a second, but Hannibal keeps his attention on his food and the moment passes without further mention.  
“Probably forced myself to learn how to cook them, I guess,” Cassandra muses over the sliced beet on her fork. “Or left it in boxes for neighbors to help themselves.”  
“Artist and philanthropist,” Hannibal grins at her. The timer chirps from the kitchen and he excuses himself to tend to the pastry, checks on the lamb, and prepares the next course.  
“Figs poached in white wine, bruled, served with sliced ox tongue and seasonal herbs,” Hannibal sets her plate down and she looks apprehensively at the meat. It’s not from an ox, naturally.  
Cassandra keeps her hands folded in her lap, scrunching her napkin and eyeing the raw sugar on the surface of the sliced figs.  
“Normally, I would do this in the kitchen, but I assumed you would want to participate.” Hannibal brandishes a blowtorch and her eyes light up.  
“I do know my way around a blowtorch,” Cassandra says, accepting the offered torch. The safety slide and shock of blue fame activate easily. “I can’t say I’ve ever had tongue before. I hope I like it,” she muses as the sugar bubbles and melts into hard shells over the figs.  
The torch clicks off and she passes it back to him, her excitement evident. True to plan, Cassandra goes for a sip of her wine and Hannibal holds for a second and…  
“No one’s ever complained about my tongue before, I doubt you will either.”  
Cassandra’s breath hitches and she almost chokes on her wine, and Hannibal pretends not to notice while he fires his own figs. She sets her wine glass down and her flush is evident, but she doesn’t remark on the comment.  
Women, people really, just another instrument to master. Not that this is all a chore for him, Hannibal enjoys it. Some people play like his most practiced arias, others take more time to pluck out and can come loose in a flurry of notes all at once. Difficult people bring more satisfaction once he figures them out, but the practiced ease of others is soothing and familiar. They all have their place in his game.  
Right now, Cassandra’s place is in his bed, but more on that later.  
The sound of hard cracking sugar brings him out of his thoughts as Cassandra breaks apart her figs. Hannibal watches her take the first bite, never tiring of the wicked joy he feels when his guests try the unconventional meals he makes.  
Plating food is as important as the food itself; presentation is key. The human rib bone garnishing the lamb would only stand out as human to someone that really knows. Human ribs are more curved than animals’ and lack certain notches and edges. Hannibal framed the lamb in human second and third ribs and edible flowers, an homage to Cassandra’s brand of work.  
Cassandra does an excellent job nudging the bones with her fork, chewing slowly and glancing at Hannibal from the corner of her eye. She recognized them easily but said nothing. The cogs in her brain keep turning, and as much as Hannibal respects her desire to stay polite and respect his privacy, what is she still waiting for?  
Her respect for his privacy isn’t genuine; it’s all out of an assumed agreement that he will do the same, that he will return the favor. Hannibal has no intention of this and resents her presumptuous reliance on the unspoken rules he discards like cherry pits.  
It’s not her fault. She will learn.  
The meal continues smoothly. Another knee graze here, a shoe nudge there, light brushings of her shoulder when he leaves to tend to things in the kitchen.  
If only he’d remembered to set her place at the table so he could look at the bruise around her eye. It was already fading so quickly. He would have the mark on her palm forever, though.  
Cassandra, like the parts that make up her own works, is a means to an end. She would fall in line or face the consequences; it was all the same to him.

#### XVI

Everyone has a little voice in their heads, the one that’s them but not them. The voice that says things like “jump under that bus,” “She gave you a dirty look,” “You look fat in that top,” “That is a human rib next to your lamb chop.” That voice isn’t you, not really, because you can tell it to fuck off and leave you alone. Usually.  
My little voice is well-honed and observant, constantly on the lookout for those that would sniff around too much, spill the family secrets, or just try to kill us. Back in the day, Diedre Marder could whisper a name and the very same person would be on her table in the basement that night. Anything to keep our business under wraps. Nana could look a man up and down and know how he took his coffee, how he shined his shoes, and the kind of books he read. She taught me as much as she could, really, but my skills and hers didn’t always line up.  
I’m well aware Hannibal isn’t all he seems. He was a doctor; he probably kept some artifacts for shock value. Past patrons have done stranger things, kept stranger trophies. I’ve seen human fetuses in glass baubles used as Christmas ornaments, gilded metacarpal garlands, eyeballs encased in the ornate stems of goblets. Rich people are weird. Compared to what I’ve seen, Hannibal is downright tasteful.  
My little voice still says all manner of things about him. He’s wicked smart, self-obsessed, fussy, meticulous, and hot. And dangerous. And he’s laying it on thick. He 100% knows I work with real human remains, but not in what capacity aside from its secretive illegality. He’s yet to ask me about this for some reason, preferring to lord it over me and watch me struggle and grapple with the façade. Our routine feels standard now, a necessary dance or parley that tints every interaction we have. It’s a lot to take in about one person, and alarms sound less like alarms and more like music if you listen to them long enough.  
We opted to wait on dessert, a persimmon tart cooling on the counter, as I felt too full from the other courses. I found myself in his sitting room, on the same blue velvet chaise, with yet another full glass of wine.  
I retreat to the bathroom to think and talk some sense into myself, feeling his eyes on me as I leave the room. He keeps dropping hints, the touches, the looks, but never saying anything explicit. Everything goes right up to the line, but never steps over. I wish wine didn’t flush my cheeks so much.  
It’s still really hot when a man cooks for you, and even more hot when a blowtorch gets involved.  
This is a bad idea. It was all a bad idea, back to the very first skull I adorned with butterfly wings years ago. But we’re here now, and there’s not much to be done about the past besides reckon with the future it’s created.  
It hits me, finally: Hannibal’s comments and touches toe the line because he is waiting for my concession to bring him over said line. I roll my eyes at myself and finish washing my hands.  
He’s leaving it up to me, what a gentleman.  
Hannibal is in the same place I left him on the sofa, but he’s slung one arm over the back and angled himself in the perfect invitation. I have a choice now: sit in the armchair, the other side of the couch, or right where he wants me. He turns his smoldering gaze to me, drinking in my every step till I lower myself next to him and nestle my curves against his.  
Here we go. This is a bad idea, but here we go. There’s no one to disapprove or expect better of me.  
I hear a rumbling noise of satisfaction in his chest and try my best to turn it all off. The alarms, the voice, the wondering if I’ve received a text from Paolo, all of it.  
He feels warm and strong against me. Stable, even. Stable as a high stone tower that could show me something amazing if I could make the climb to the top. My own sense of stability falters; how could I confuse the hopeless stagnation of my current life for stability? Was I really just going to play janitor for the mob for the rest of my life?  
Fingers trailing down my arm bring be back to reality. They encircle my hand and spread my palm wide. Hannibal regards the forming scar tissue a moment and travels to my wrist, rubbing the blue and purple veins slowly. My head rests against his chest comfortably. He can take his time. I have nowhere I need to be, probably.  
“I’ve wanted this since Folle,” he tells me between gentle kisses on my fingers, and I believe it.  
“Hmm,” I slowly trace the line of buttons of his shirt and vest. “You could have told me; I would have worn that dress again.”  
“Next time, then,” Hannibal’s free hand goes to the side of my face and gently turns it to his. There, with our noses almost touching, I finally get to fall into his eyes of honey flecked with gold, until they close, and his mouth finds mine.  
They’re gentle, searching kisses at first. Testing my own willingness and reciprocity, but they quickly grow rougher and demanding, his tongue slipping between my lips easily. His hand is still on the side of my face, soft but with an underlying strength that warns against any attempt to pull away. The hand that was holding mine quickly changes course, gliding over the silk of my dress aimlessly.  
Hannibal breaks the kiss to reach over and grab under the crook of my knee and pull me, quite easily, onto his lap. My gasp is cut short by another kiss and his hands are already inching under my dress, tickling over the nylon of my pantyhose. My hands go to the sides of his face, so I can hold him there in my own way, and his tongue slides against mine and behind my teeth. When his hands get around my hips, he pulls me down and against his own. I make a shuddering noise of surprise and try to get my breathing under control.  
“Are you alright? Do you need a minute?” He opens his eyes to search my face, concern with a teasing edge. His hands rock my hips against his as he says this, and I didn’t think it was possible to be so turned on so quickly.  
“No, I’m fine,” I breathed, and I’ve barely gotten it out before he’s going for my neck. My breath hitches when the kisses turn into nips and then bites along the spot where my neck meets my shoulders. ‘It’s ok,’ I tell myself, head swimming, ‘It’s Fall, I’ll wear turtlenecks.’  
I finally notice one of his hands withdrew from under my skirt and is feeling uselessly at the back of my dress. Hannibal pauses the attack on my neck and peers over my shoulder.  
“Cassandra, were you sewn into this dress, or am I simply going blind?” He purrs in my ear and I still enjoy the sound of my name from his mouth.  
I chuckle softly, “It’s on the side for this one.”  
Hannibal finds it easily then, “What…” he snags my lower lip between his teeth, “… a cruel trick.”  
“I wasn’t trying to trick you.”  
“We’ll find a way for you to make up for it.”  
The blue fabric slides down over my shoulders and I stood for only as long as it required to step out of the dress and sling it over the back of a nearby chair. Hannibal pulls me back onto his lap with a fevered urgency, running his hands up my back and pressing our bodies together as he resumes his onslaught upon my collarbone.  
I squirm against the fabric of his vest and pants. Dresses are unfair in that, once they’re off, you’re practically naked, while your partner still has multiple layers and pieces keeping him from being naked with you. Hannibal is hugging me too close to get further than the first few buttons of his shirt, so I settle for running my hand through what chest hair is exposed and up his neck, to pull him into another kiss. He swallows the little noises I make, and we could have been there for a minute or an hour, I have no idea. No concept of anything outside his body against mine and the heat inside of me growing rapidly.  
There’s a feeling of release and I realize Hannibal already unclasped my bra. It peels off and finds its place somewhere on the other side of the room.  
He leans me back to lavish attention on my breasts but stops when he notices.  
“Pantyhose but no underwear?” He asks, voice rough with lust and the same teasing edge from before.  
I shrug, “I hate panty lines, it was a silk dress…”  
“Mmhmm,” He grinds my hips against his yet again and I repeat the motion by myself, eliciting a groan or a growl of approval from him. This is how he wanted it: me, exposed, and him, still completely dressed and in control. He presses his forehead to mine and inhales deeply. “I think it’s time we took this upstairs.”  
“I’ll follow you.”  
He doesn’t give me time to take in the details of his bedroom, but I’m not paying attention to them anyway. I’m deposited on the bed and I roll languidly on the velvety duvet while he closes the door, draws blinds, and adjusts the lighting.  
His waistcoat finds its way to a chair and he stalks toward the edge of the bed. My legs stiffen and back arches as I luxuriate in a cat-like stretch and he watches with a bemused expression.  
“Come here, to me.”  
It’s an easy command to follow.


	9. The Calm Before The Everything Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal does what must be done: trespass on personal property and drug people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you to everyone following along this far. It's a lot to ask of a reader for an OC, I think, and I appreciate every kudos and comment- they spur me on! I know I took a while to update this time, but rest assured I have a lot more planned and it's about to get fucky up in here. Also, I figured out formatting, maybe, finally.

#### XVII

The lock on Cassandra’s back door picks easily. Her family doesn’t have anything to hide, why would they invest in complex locking mechanisms?  
Apollo charges into the kitchen growling savagely but stops short, cocking his head and looking at Hannibal, a familiar human, with confusion. His eyes search for his owner behind the intruder and Apollo begins to growl again as he detects no one else. Hannibal presents his offering, some twisted, dried sinews, and the huge dog accepts after some consideration. After the first round is gone, Apollo sits, tail wagging gently, and Hannibal gives him yet another.  


Will Graham didn’t even bother to lock his door.  


Hannibal searches the ground floor of Cassandra’s home in the dark. Everything so outdated and worn out, with no obvious attempt at redecoration still. A shame, the bones of the house are strong. Apollo appears with his favorite pillow and Hannibal takes it, turning his attention to the staircase.  
_“Did you really mean what you said?” Hannibal held a rapidly fading Cassandra to his chest when they were done. She drank every bit of the water he gave her, from a glass laced with sedatives.  
“Hmm?”  
“About the Chesapeake Ripper. What you said today. Do you believe it’s true?” Hannibal swallowed in the dark. She wouldn’t remember this. Probably. “He’s uninspired and playing it safe?”  
Cassandra shifted and sighed. “I mean, in a way. It’s what I was struck with…” she trailed off into a yawn. “Truth be told, I could look at a thousand pictures of his… works, and never accurately assess them.”  
“Why is that?” He stroked her arm under the covers to keep her awake for a moment longer.  
“They’re sculptures…” she whispered groggily. “If you’re not there it’s not the same. It’s like The David.”  
Hannibal twisted to look at her and shook her shoulder. “You’ve seen The David?”  
Cassandra made a soft noise of complaint. “Yes... You see pictures, think you understand, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. He’s 17 feet tall… and just… You don’t get it till you… see it for yourself...” Her breathing grew deep and Hannibal forgot his other questions.  
He held her a few minutes more, nose buried in her hair, till he was certain she was out cold. Sedating her may have been unnecessary after how much he wore her out, but peace of mind never hurt._  


Hannibal’s eyes blink rapidly as he takes in the scene behind the door at the top of the stairs, even throwing a glance downstairs to make certain it was the same house. The glimpses seen through windows didn’t prepare him for the indoor forest turned cabinet of curiosities side show.  
Shelves line the walls, laden with containers of bird eggs, snail shells, leaves, dried flowers, countless small animal specimens, preserved insects, lengths of silk and ribbon, gemstones, crystals, and any other manner of bits and bobs. Desks and worktables hold in-progress pieces, paints, brushes, lacquers, tweezers, shapers, craft blades, and sponges.  


And then the live plants. Any space not taken up by Cassandra’s work is occupied by a swaying tropical plant. Vines climb the walls and hang from the ceiling. Huge orchids arch into space, alien blooms as large as his hand. The moon above illuminates the entire space through a massive skylight.  


There, on the far desk, a skull glittering with stones inlaid in a pattern of a classic phrenology model. Hannibal risks picking it up, mouth turning upwards. He would request one of these for his office. 

Once he found the first piece, the others were easy to pick out.  


A jar of phalanges, trays stacked with ribs similar to the one he garnished dinner with, patellas waiting in a row for engraving. A cloaked mass rests next to a table holding a freshly cleaned spinal column, clearly his commissioned work and a new part of it, judging by the swallows propped into varied flight positions next to the vertebrae.  
This is all well and good, but Hannibal already knew what supplies she worked with and this discovery did nothing but confirm that. Useless. Hannibal came here to know where, and with luck, why.  


Apollo trots into the room and Hannibal turns from his spot in Cassandra’s bed, huffing as much of her scent as he could off the pillow. The dog whines softly, tail wagging.  
“Show me, and you’ll have another.”  


Apollo turns abruptly and bounds down the stairs, and Hannibal follows.  
The dog stands before the kitchen, a door slightly ajar behind him. Hannibal blinks in the dim light, recalling how Cassandra appeared from a space in the back of the house when he visited, not upstairs.  


The red sweater Hannibal loaned Cassandra weeks ago sits folded on the dresser. His eyes searched the room: nothing but a bed and covered furniture, and the unmistakable smell of a classic Estee Lauder perfume. Nana’s room.  


A full-length mirror stands, partially uncovered, and Hannibal notices some of the marks Cassandra left on him peeking above his collar. No matter, for every love bite she gave him, she received three.  


_Cassandra was making incredible noises, he’d curled two fingers into her mouth to prop it open, so nothing would get between him and the sounds she made. She was well beyond the point of possibly taking issue with the invasion, or anything else he might have wanted to do. Hannibal held them both upright, her back against his front while his hips snapped up into hers. His other hand splayed over her stomach, pinning her in place. He’d turned her head, by way of pressure on the inside of her cheek, to the huge mirror on his wall.  
_

_“Look at yourself… Look at us,” he breathed and closed his teeth around her earlobe.  
_

_The sight of herself against him, his hands where they were, and the rapacity of his eyes on her reflection was enough. Cassandra tensed and writhed against him, her noises filling his bedroom uninhibited. He’d followed close behind after that.  
_

Apollo barks, bringing Hannibal out of the memory, and moves from his spot on the rug as Hannibal approaches. The rest was easy to figure out after that, and a wide grin splits Hannibal’s face as the trapdoor swings open. His descent is interrupted by an insistent bark and Hannibal tosses the treat up and over the edge.  


The staircase spirals down, deep in the bedrock hewn decades ago. It makes sense, that this would be down here. If the top floor is where Cassandra flourished, the ground floor limbo, then this level is her hell, so to speak. The spaces would mesh in time.  


In complete darkness, Hannibal finds a light switch and the room comes alive.  


Scanning the freezers, tables, lifts, instruments, and safety equipment, Hannibal’s chest swells with his triumph. The tanks lining the wall were odd, but he had nothing but time to investigate. Everything gleams in spotless white and stainless steel, bleach tinging the stench that pushes through the filtering systems on the coolers across the room.  


Hannibal takes one of the masks from the wall as a precaution.  


The first chest creaks open and his brow furrows at the sight inside. The stench hits him like a wall, even with the mask.  


Bugs? Beetles. Flesh eating beetles. A half-eaten hand reaches out of the writhing mass.  


Hannibal observes the frenzy inside. Larva worm their way out of their birthing canals tunneled into the flesh of some unlucky soul, only to gorge themselves on carrion and grow into adult beetles and produce more eggs, more larva, more consumption.  


Cassandra’s fervent protection of her secret almost makes sense; if she told him she kept a basement full of flesh-eating insects, he may not have believed her.  


The second chest opens. A fresher body, perhaps the one delivered a few days ago. The beetles only managed to eat at the softest tissues of lip, eye, and tongue, but Hannibal still recognizes the likeness of a missing person’s notice released the day before. A more processed torso seems to heave out of the substrate in the bottom of the chest, as if in escape of the tiny creatures picking at its flesh.  


Each chest contains a body in some various state of consumption. The log on a table marks dates, including the day Cassandra visited, fell, and left in a hurry. No names, no reasons why, just dates, numbers, sometimes weights. Later pages hold timelines for batches of fertilizer and organ deliveries to the “Rescue.”  


She’s a busy woman.  


Eye stalks wriggle as Hannibal reaches in and rubs the shells of the giant snails rasping at a femur. How Hannibal never thought of feeding his own snails bone, he’d never know.  


After seeing all he needs to see, Hannibal climbs back to the surface and sits in a leather easy chair in the living room. The soft bundle in his pocket draws his attention and he pulls out the torn scraps of nylon that used to be Cassandra’s hose. He kneads the soft material thoughtfully, drawing remnants of her scent from the fabric. A satisfied sigh escapes him as he cranes his neck to look around the mundane space. This felt like true progress.  


Something gnaws at him though, taints this victory, and his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he drives home. He’d eschewed waiting for her confession for this investigation, and that wasn’t what bothered him. She practically forced his hand, what with the conversation in his office earlier and her less-than-gracious critique of his work. 

Will was correct: she does think she can do better.  


Hannibal realizes that in the whole of the pristine, white lab, he saw few weapons of the hunt, or instruments that weren’t scalpels, surgical saws, or clamps for wrenching open sternums. Cassandra was unlikely to keep such things upstairs, he felt. So where were they? Surely in such a hidden space, a seasoned killer wouldn’t hide her tools of the trade.  


Cassandra managed to tangle herself in the covers, one arm reaching across the side of the bed he left empty. People always looked so much smaller when they slept. Hannibal sighed, easing her out of the cocoon of blankets and taking his place next to her.  


The final piece falls into place and Hannibal understands with a great sense of betrayal and annoyance that Cassandra hasn’t killed any of the bodies she’s come into contact with, the “deliveries” she handles aside. And that was completely, and utterly unacceptable. Hannibal’s fingers dig into the soft skin under Cassandra’s jaw until he feels her pulse begin to slow. Once her hands begin to twitch, Hannibal relents, and she sighs in her sleep, eyes fluttering.  


She’s forcing him to alter course, change his plan of attack once again. Hannibal weighs his frustration, debating on repeating the prior exercise.  


Was any of this worth it?  


Cassandra shifts in her sleep, twisting and running a hand across and over Hannibal’s chest to rest on his shoulder.  


And he simply can’t help but push her hair away from her face.  


She may be worth it. For now. If he can push her over the edge, have her discover the source of her decadent and macabre creations. Only time would reveal the depth of that well, how much he could draw for his own purposes.  


Hannibal is struck with the same mixture of satisfaction and determination he hasn’t felt since he practiced medicine instead of psychology. He knows what’s wrong with Cassandra, what ails her. More importantly, he knows how to fix it.  


He is a doctor after all; helping people is what he does.

#### XVIII

A link appears in my inbox, sent from Will Graham’s email. A Tattlecrime article titled “Chesapeake Ripper- Ripping Off Himself?”  


“A local art expert (who wishes to remain anonymous) suggested to this reporter that the Chesapeake Ripper might not be performing to his full potential in the killing room…”  


I grimace, reading that, and ignore the rest of the article. I’m still behind on the progress I wanted to make before Hannibal’s visit today, and swallows don’t hang themselves. I shiver, if my boss knew I was working with FBI agents and Tattlecrime reporters… well, it’s a good thing I got to stay anonymous.

_“Cassie! Cassie, pay attention to what you’re doing- agh!” Nana’s hands fly up to protect her from the rain of gore my errant saw kicks up at her. “AUGH! For fucks sake, look at this mess.”  
_

_“Sorry, Nana,” the whine of the saw cuts off and I avoid the eyes of the cadaver in front of me.  
_

_She swears in Greek, snatching the saw away. “You cut too deep. Again. Where does your head go?! Up your ass?” More swearing. “Your mother never gave me this problem, and I didn’t do this either. Stay. Present. Down here.” She jabs a finger on my forehead, smudging me with blood.  
_

_“What’s upstairs doesn’t matter, I don’t care about your test or that boy in your class, and he sure doesn’t give a fuck either.” She nudges the man’s head. It lolls stiffly, the broken jaw clacking.  
_

_Nana finishes my failed task, sawing through his sternum, with practiced efficiency. Opening the chest cavity provides more air and surface area for the beetles to do their work and allows easier access to the organs inside. Removing internal organs isn’t necessary, but the Rescue in the west will process them quicker than the beetles and in turn we can take on more bodies. I seal the heart, lungs, liver, and everything else in a bag and it goes into the freezer with identical packages.  
_

_“When we take those later in the month, and we pick up the new guard dog, eh?” Nana offers softly, trying to soothe the sting from her earlier comments. “It’s a girl, this time.”  
_

_My hand closes around a scalpel, “Yeah, I miss having Hermes around. Have you thought about her name?”  
_

_“Eris, I think,” Nana grunts, bending an arm out of its rigor mortis so I can slice at the connective tissues. “Laura says she’s more ferocious than any of their male dogs right now. Goes right for the throat, follows all her commands.”  
_

_We finish in relative silence, till our charge is safely tucked away in the dark, writhing masses, and return to the surface to finish dinner.  
_

It’s a weird memory to recall in a dream, laying in a lover’s bed, but Hannibal has that effect on me.  


About a week passed since the night Hannibal had me for dinner and afterwards fucked me with the same overwhelming, thorough expertise he does everything else. He felt strange in the morning. Quiet and distracted, sending me into the world with leftover persimmon tart and more hickeys than I knew how to cover. Typical.  


Joan was right. I should have done everything in my power to stay professional and distant. She doesn’t know it happened… I can’t find the right words to tell her I did exactly what she told me not to do.  


The clock creeps closer to the arrival time and I wish I’d invested in more flattering smocks. My stomach churns. It’s not the first time a young, newish-to-the scene artist let herself get taken advantage of by an older, prominent member of high-class society, and it certainly won’t be the last. I knew better, and I ignored my better judgement for a roll with high cheekbones and strong hands. Really strong hands.  


“At least it was good,” I told Apollo over lunch.  
Apollo cocks his head. “There’s still that one little issue…” his eyes said.  
Right. Well, if Hannibal continues to play dumb, I can, too.  


The doorbell rings and Apollo bounds to the front door, tail wagging wildly.  
Hannibal wears a suit of burgundy plaid, clutching his briefcase and an expensive looking parcel tied in ribbon. Before I can properly welcome him, Apollo charges between us, snuffling at Hannibal’s hands and pockets.  


“Apollo! Hey, rude!” I nudge him and he looks to me and back at Hannibal expectantly. “When did you turn into a beggar? Go lie down…” He huffs and trots off, chastised. I turn back to Hannibal, “Sorry about that. I don’t know what got into him. He knows better”  
“I wouldn’t fret over it. Changing weather can make animals behave strangely…” Hannibal cuts off, faced with the empty ground floor of my home. “You’re redecorating, I see.” His voice echoes strangely in the space.  


Only the kitchen table remains, and Hannibal crosses to deposit his belongings there. “I suddenly felt ready for a change, I guess. There are a few pieces in Nana’s- I mean the downstairs bedroom- but I finally got all the wallpaper off. I’ll paint next week, I hope.”  


Hannibal nods his approval, “It’s a big step, moving on after the death of a loved one. Are you adhering strictly to your grandmother’s mourning tactics? Or will she be sponged away from your life the way she did your parents and grandfather?”  


“No, I’ll remember her on my own terms. I kept some photos and nick knacks but the furniture had to go.” I cross my arms and lean on the counter, unwilling to continue this line of questioning or talk paint chips. “Will sent me the article.”  


Hannibal’s lip curls minutely and he stays quiet as he busies himself with his bag, pulling out a tablet and two sealed thermoses. “And what did you think of it?”  


I bite my lip, “It was pretty brutal, some of what I read. I’m glad my name isn’t on it; she really twisted my words... You’re sure I’ll remain anonymous?”  


“Cassandra, I doubt the Chesapeake Ripper will ever know who you are. He’ll be too focused on the words Freddie wrote, and his rebuttal.”  


“Sure, but like Will said, my sculptures are similar to what he makes. You don’t think there’s a chance he’s noticed?” My worry must be evident, because Hannibal turns to me and grips the sides of my arms, a little too tightly at first to be reassuring. I knew my sculptures would grab attention, but never considered they could make me the target of a killer. The killers I work with don’t operate the same as the Ripper… their motivations are, believe it or not, business related.  


Hannibal’s grip on my arms soften and he kisses my forehead. I’m even more confused about the status of “us,” but his cologne is heady and calming. “Put it out of your mind. Will and the rest of the FBI know what they’re doing. Besides, I wouldn’t have put you in this situation if I couldn’t protect you from the outcomes.”  


He tilts my chin for a kiss and the worry recedes. Nothing about Hannibal is safe, I know, but he’s still comforting in his way.  


The ribbon-wrapped parcel holds half a dozen pairs of new panty hose, and my thermos of tea steams on the table as I file through the new garments. These are much, much nicer than what I buy. Hell, I don’t even know where he got these.  


“I thought it was only right for me to replace them, seeing as yours keep getting destroyed in my home,” his eyes carry a devilish glint I’m growing more and more accustomed to.  


I find more silky, lacy things below the hose and replace the lid on the box, chewing the inside of my cheek.  


Hannibal is quiet for a beat, his own cup of tea pausing halfway to his mouth. “Do you not like them? I know I picked the correct size.”  


“No, no, it’s not that… I guess I wasn’t on the same page about whatever it is we’re doing,” I clear my throat and drum my fingers on the box. “They’re beautiful, really, thank you. I wasn’t expecting them, is all.”  


He regards me another moment, reveling in my discomfort, “What is it you think we’re doing?”  


I shrug. We are dancing and half pushing each other, half stumbling together towards… something. It’s not sustainable, but it’s new, and constant in its precariousness.  


“It’s cliché, don’t you think? Young, well, relatively young, artist running around with her high-end clientele… I assumed it was a one-time thing. If Joan found out, she’d skin me alive.”  


The corners of Hannibal’s lips turn up. “I was far from finished with you,” he moves closer to me again, brazenly scanning me up and down and sending a blush up my cheeks in a heartbeat. “That is, if you can bear the cliché of it all.” There’s a harder edge to his voice than his words would betray. Come to think of it, Hannibal’s been a little off this whole time. Apollo is acting strangely too, following Hannibal’s every move with hopeful, sad eyes.  


But it’s like Hannibal said, changing weather makes animals do strange things.  


I hold back a laugh, “I think I’ll manage, but this visit is supposed to be about business, so let’s head upstairs.”  


Hannibal relents and heads to the staircase. Apollo whines and rushes to sniff at his suit pockets again, coming dangerously close to stepping up and putting his paws on Hannibal’s slacks.  


“APOLLO,” I shout and whistle shrilly through my teeth. “Outside. Now.” My fingers snap and point to the back door. Apollo whines and shuffles through his doggy door. I latch it closed, so he’s trapped outside, and ignore the imploring stare through the window. “I’m so sorry about him, I guess I’m behind on his manners refresh. Nana apparently kept it up more than I have… did you get food on your clothes maybe? I don’t know why he thinks you have something for him, but he’s impossibly food motivated.”  


Hannibal shakes his head and switches his briefcase to his other hand, “Will would better know how a dog’s brain works. I’m afraid my expertise ends at the human mind.”  


Apollo whines pitifully from the outside and I rub my arm, throwing a glance back at my guard dog turned pampered lap dog. I can’t think of a time I’ve locked him up, away from me like this. Apollo came to the family a few years ago, after Eris met an untimely end, and we bonded so much during the months Nana was in hospice.  


“I’m eager to see your progress,” Hannibal says, and I whip my head back. “Don’t forget your tea.”  


“Oh… right.” I take the mug he brought and lead the way upstairs. Hannibal supplied the tea today, insisting I try whatever his new fancy import is. It leans a little on the earthy side for me, with an aftertaste that hits like vanilla or maybe just more dirt, but I sip it dutifully as I climb the stairs. Hannibal’s shoes clack loudly in the empty space of the bottom floor and I realize he will be the only person aside from Joan to see this space.  


I falter at the landing, and Hannibal’s hand steadies me at the small of my back when I grasp the railing.  


“Cassandra, are you well?”  


I nod, blinking through a sudden swirl in my vision and sway where I stand. Hannibal’s other hand goes to my elbow, pushing my drink upwards and I swig the rest of it without thinking. “Just, got a weird dizzy spell, but I’m fine… I think.”  


“Sudden changes in atmospheric pressure can cause vertigo, perhaps the first snowfall will be more blizzard than flurry,” Hannibal’s smooth voice calms me easily, and the warmth of him behind me drives my steps through the door and into my studio. I love it in here, with my plants and all the baubles. I feel his hand travel down, clasping mine.  


He’s so nice. And handsome. And smart… and… Oh, fuck.  


His grip tightens, a pinprick, and nothing.  
…  
……  
……….  
……………..  


The sounds of joints cracking beyond their means always satisfies me in an odd way, sets a space under my tongue tingling. Knees snap easily once a few key tendons get severed, especially when you bear down with all your weight and pull against the natural hinge of bone and cartilage. A bright and hollow chorus.  


This sound I’ve heard countless times, so many times I can differentiate ages based on the crunching, know how much cartilage has been worn away over the years. But this time, the sound brings me to the surface.  


And Hannibal is there, sitting on the edge of a table opposite me, watching me with the same peace and mild interest he might watch me twist wire around a stuffed bird.  


Knives clatter to the floor and I jump back into a wall of snail tanks. A dozen snails roam free, sliming aimlessly up walls, across tables, even on the body I was working on till a second before. Blood coats my arms past my elbows and soaks my front. None of my usual work clothes protect me from the carnage before me and my shirt and pants move stiff and sticky against my skin.  


Hannibal hasn’t reacted to my outburst, instead bringing a persimmon to his lips and biting into the flesh with an obscene slurping noise that bounces around the lab as he watches me breathe heavily.  
“Is everything alright?” A single trail of juice moves down his wrist and he licks it up without taking his eyes off me.  


My head whips around and my hair sticks to the blood coating my face. Sweetness from my own fruits mixes with an unmistakable metallic taste.  
“How did you get down here? Who is this??”  


He smiles, but we are getting ahead of ourselves.


	10. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This risk was calculated, but boy am I bad at math.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, this is a LONG chapter. I hope you enjoy, it marks an exciting turning/halfway point and I agonized over every little bit :)  
> Thank you as always to all my readers that have stuck with it this far.

#### XVIII

Cassandra’s indoor jungle requires constant maintenance and primping. Hannibal watches her flit between planters and shelves as his custom mixture takes further hold of her system. One hand delicately lifts and inspects leaves while the other holds dead and discarded ones. Fall and Winter seasons take a serious toll on tropical plants suited to mild climates and high humidity.  


A glass terrarium houses a dense colony of Venus flytraps, open maws shining pink against brilliant green. Cassandra tuts, plucking a shriveled stalk away from the cluster.  


“Hand me that mister, would you please?”  


Hannibal passes the spray bottle from the table next to him to her waiting hand. She spritzes the flytraps with intense precision, her focus struggling with the psycho-active blend coursing through her body.  


“Do you enjoy the work you do?”  


Cassandra wordlessly replaces the lid of the terrarium, making doubly sure the seal is tight. “I make interesting things, things I enjoy making, and other people tend to enjoy them, too.”  


She rises to inspect an anthurium with huge, pendulous leaves that shine metallically in the early golden hour. Hannibal catches her hand and she allows him to pull her down into his lap.  


“Hannibal!” She exclaims but nestles against him all the same. “What did you put in our tea? I feel…” She trails off, dragging a fingernail down the pressed crease in his pants. A small gesture, but it’s distracting enough for Hannibal to grab her wrist and return it to her lap. She chuckles to herself, pleased to get a reaction out of him.  


“It’s a special mix, I made it just for you,” Hannibal says, lacing his fingers through hers. He commits as much of this moment as he can to permanent memory- the projects in progress on her tables, all the baubles and curios lining shelves, and the scent of turpentine and dirt that floats under the scent of Cassandra’s hair. The coming minutes will determine the next few hours of Hannibal’s evening and Cassandra’s lifespan. If she fails, he could return to this forever. And he still has Will.  


“Hmm, how thoughtful,” she breathes against his neck. Hannibal shifts underneath her, reaching into a concealed pocket inside his suit jacket and removing a few pieces of stiff paper wrapped in a handkerchief.  


“Cassandra.”  


“Hmm?”  


He moves his head away from her soft touches. Focus is of utmost importance right now.  


“You remember when we met with Will Graham, and you consulted and critiqued the pictures he had?”  


“You mean the Ripper crime scenes.”  


“You called them sculptures, but yes, those very ones,” Hannibal says, thumbing the edge of the cards in his hand.  


Cassandra stays quiet as she thinks back, toying with the gold cufflinks on his sleeve, “I remember them… Some of them were nice. Good design that didn’t quite make it in concept for me… But I’m a touch critic.”  


One of Hannibal’s eyebrows quirks up, “That you are, but you come by it honestly.”  


She laughs softly, “You could say that.”  


“Tell me, what do you think of these sculptures?”  


Hannibal brings the old polaroids into her field of view and she takes them from his hand. He could count on one hand the number of people that have seen these pictures, and all of them are dead now. She says nothing, flipping through the glossy images with their vintage blown-out contrast and warmth.  


“Botticelli?”  


He nods. Her heartrate thrums along steadily.  


A smile spreads across her face, and Hannibal releases the breath he was holding. “They’re beautiful,” she breathes. “There’s so much life in them, even though...” She hums, filing through the pictures again.  


Hannibal nestles his chin in the crook where her neck and shoulders meet, looking at his Il Monstro photographs from another lifetime. Hannibal could only guess at how the pictures swirled and danced in her eyes, given her current state.  


“Zephyrus abducted and manipulated Chloris into being his wife- and turned her into the goddess of flowers,” Cassandra says quietly as Hannibal takes the pictures back and tucks them away securely. “It’s not a happy story.”  


“Is there a story you would rather tell?”  


She shrugs, “Not mine, but I always try to tell stories with what I make. People need a narrative, something to attach a part of themselves to. People like art that makes them feel like they know something no one else does.”  


Hannibal flips her hand to rub at the new heart line he inadvertently created when he sabotaged Cassandra’s bandsaw weeks ago. Her fingers twitch at the sensation but she makes no move to stop him.  


Is that where he got lost? The stories? He killed for his own pleasure and no one else’s, but it’s been years since he put on a production on such a scale as his Florence days. 

“Return to the fundamentals,” that's what Cassandra said in his office last week.  


“Do you enjoy the work you do?”  


“Yes,” she laughs softly. “You already asked me that.”  


“I don’t mean that work, I mean the work you do down in the basement,” Hannibal says and follows Cassandra’s eyes to the large chest of drawers he knows holds cleaned and prepared bones.  


“Oh… that.” She’s quiet, accepting the idea Hannibal knows about her secret workshop beneath the house without issue. Cassandra extracts herself from Hannibal’s arms and finds a seat across in an orange velvet wingback. “Do we have to talk about that? Now?”  


“I’m afraid we do.”  


“I mean, I’m good at it… There’s that,” she lolls her head back, gazing at an arch of orchids. “There’s something rewarding about doing a job well.”  


“Yes, I’m sure, but do you enjoy it?”  


Another long pause. No one ever asked this of her before, and no one ever cared to know. She never saw the sense in wondering it herself. Hannibal waits while she grapples with this. Relaxing her mind enough to ask this question without causing extreme agitation was the sole motivation of medicating her. A last resort, but none of his other methods breached her watchful misdirections and calculated half-truths.  


“Sometimes,” she finally whispers, pulling a dead leaf off a nearby orchid. She inspects the leaf with close interest, avoiding Hannibal’s relentless stare.  


“Why only sometimes?” The sun is finally setting in the late Fall sky, cutting through the surrounding trees and illuminating motes of dust in the air. Cassandra whips her head up, as if surprised Hannibal is still there. There’s a long, tense moment of her glassy, dark eyes boring into him, and he can only guess at what thoughts bounce around her head.  


“Why? Why do you want to know so badly?” she sighs in exasperation. “It’s a side gig… I forget I have to do it until Paolo calls… But you won’t drop it… What’s so important?”  


An even inhale, “Tell me about Paolo, is he why you don’t enjoy working downstairs?”  


“Yes,” Cassandra says quickly, rolling her eyes. “I have to do what he says, when he says. He doesn’t care if I’m full. I’m never not on call. He was better before Gio died, but even before he was rude and Gio handled more of the go-between. Paolo doesn’t understand what I do. No one does.”  


Hannibal leans forward in his chair, “What do you do to them? Help me understand.”  


She mirrors his movement, leaning forward, hair falling around her face. “What do I get?”  


Hannibal’s brow creases, “Hmm?”  


Cassandra scoffs and props her chin on the heel of her hand, “What do I get, if I tell you? You want to know much, much more than I want to tell, so, what’s in it for me?”  


Hannibal’s lip curls slightly. She has a point, unfortunately, and now she’s too addled to be afraid of him. The sense behind her words aside, Cassandra is far from present. Her hands work and clasp on air now, and frenzied eyes follow shifts and colors Hannibal isn’t privy to.  


“What do you want?”  


Her eyes narrow as she thinks on this, and finally, “Maybe I have questions, too.”  


Hannibal licks his lips, “Is that it, Cassandra? You get a question for each one I ask, quid pro quo?”  


“That makes sense to me,” she lurches up and stretches her arms over her head, reaching for the vines swaying above. “All this time, I’ve been so afraid of what would happen when you found out… But then you go through all this trouble… And I realized…” Cassandra laughs softly. “I have something you want, not the other way around.”  


Hannibal doesn’t say anything, working his jaw as if trying to dislodge a foul taste. He either gave her too much, or too little, or this is an unexpected reaction to a new stage in the influence, or she’s eaten more today than he hypothesized, or any other variable, but the fact stands: She’s right.  


“For now.”  


Cassandra smirks, “I’ll tell you about my work if you tell me about yours… Where did that rib come from? At dinner last week. I know it was from a human.” She points an accusatory finger, “So don’t try to tell me it’s from a deer or a dog… That won’t work on me.”  


Hannibal stares her down, weighing his options. “I took it off one of my earliest kills. In Italy, years ago. They’re some of my only physical souvenirs from that time.” Besides his photos, but she neglected to ask if those belonged to him.  


Cassandra’s eyes move to study him from under her thick eyebrows, processing this new information and trying to decide if she should feel worried. The awareness swims behind a thin film over her eyes, growing thinner by the minute. She could snap back to lucidity at any moment, or totter on this edge for hours. Hannibal’s agenda is far from complete.  


“It’s your turn.”  


She clears her throat, “You know the saying… one man’s trash…”  


“Is another man’s treasure, yes,” Hannibal finishes. “Are your victims treasures to you, for their roles they play in your installations?”  


“No,” Cassandra shakes her head. “Well, maybe parts of them, but they’re not my victims.”  


Outside, Apollo barks, and Cassandra turns her attention out the window, blinking in the last dredges of overblown brightness that filters through the trees and assaults her eyes. The sun filters through the blooms of a hanging jasmine plant, turning soft white into crepe gold.  


Hannibal’s mouth twitches: he found his opening. “Do you believe that? Truly?”  


Cassandra turns back, “I haven’t, though, never.” Her brow creases.  


He shakes his head, “You may not wield the knife, no, but your hands are just as bloody as those that do.”  


“N-no, I’ve never killed anyone, really,” Cassandra falters, eyes going wide. “I’m just a fucked-up sort of… mortician.”  


Hannibal stands abruptly, forcing Cassandra back half a step. A light sheen of sweat coats her brow. If he looked closely, the faintest shadow of the bruise around her eye still shows through.  


“Cassandra, please. Morticians prepare the bodies of deceased for their loved ones to say goodbye, to lay them to their final rest. They perform a great service to society… Morticians preserve. You destroy. You strip your victims of everything, their flesh, faces, identities, and then play with what’s left, use them to fulfill your means.”  


“No, Hannibal, I haven’t killed anyone, they’re not… they’re just-“  


“You,” He takes another step forward, forcing her further back. “Are as complicit in their deaths as those that strike the killing blow. Even more so, I wager. You deny your victims a proper investigation, acknowledgement, and remembrance. What have you taken from their families? How many children will never see their parents come home, or know their fate? Are you trying to inflict the same pain of your childhood on as many people as possible?” Hannibal resists a smile when Cassandra’s lip quivers.  


He’s just too good.  


“No… No… I’m just doing my job, I have to- or, I mean, I’ve never…” Her glassy eyes well with tears; every emotion and thought screams through her mind, completely unavoidable. She casts a glance past Hannibal to the door downstairs. He moves between Cassandra and the exit, looming over her with a fierce intimidation that grows by the second.  


Cassandra’s breathing accelerates, agitated hands pulling at the knit sleeves of the sweater that must feel so suffocating right about now. She invited this when she insisted on hiding and being difficult. It’s a result of her own creation.  


“Can you really be so naïve?” Hannibal asks gently, reaching up to her face even as she flinches away.  


“I- I never asked, it wasn’t allowed, it’s part of the deal… I- I just did what I was told,” her voice cracks and wavers as the tears start flowing. It’s perfect. “It’s not my job to know, or ask, I-“  


“You just smooth the way for the ‘true’ killers, and think yourself blameless? You and your family enable death exponentially, with every victim you hide away,” Hannibal says. Cassandra’s eyes stare at nothing as she confronts this unthinkable suggestion.  


Hannibal sighs and turns her face to the sculpture-in-progress he came to view today. Two skeletons twist together in a suspended fall and they would reach out for each other if either of them had arms. Both bodies lack most of their bones and a handful of their cast resin replacements sit, shining on the table. Credit where credit is due, it’s coming along swimmingly, and the finished work promises to be breathtaking.  


Cassandra tries to turn her face away, but Hannibal holds her fast. “You may not claim victimhood of the very system you capitalize on so handsomely,” he whispers in her ear.  


She makes a strained noise and pulls out of Hannibal’s arms, stumbling backwards into a different desk and sending a tray of gemstones scattering across the floor. Hannibal allows her time to mull over the notions he planted in her mind, her breath coming in between sobs and her hands gripping the edge of the table till her knuckles turn white. The sun finally finishes setting and the plants and curios in the studio cast strange shadows in the low light.  


This marks the beginning of something truly beautiful.  


“The heads,” Cassandra says with a sudden strength in her voice.  


“Which ones?” Hannibal brushes imaginary dust off his sleeve.  


“In your basement, the ones I saw the first time I visited, they were really there… I didn’t imagine them- they were really down there,” she straightens up, wiping her eyes.  


“Is this your question for this turn?”  


She nods, sniffling.  


“You didn’t imagine anything, but you reacted differently than I expected. You’re quite the actress, knowing you see worse sights on a near daily basis,” Hannibal says. “You’ve put on an excellent show for quite some time, by the looks of it.”  


She throws him a reproachful look, “I wasn’t ready… I, I mean, that kind of thing takes preparation.”  


Hannibal can only incline his head.  


“And did you- did you push me down the stairs? I could have died!”  


Hannibal considers this a moment, “No, I didn’t push you- you did that yourself. But now you owe me two questions.” Hannibal returns to his seat and nods to Cassandra’s chair opposite. “Sit down, we are far from finished.”  


Cassandra swallows and moves to her seat, seeing no other choice of action. She looked so lovely when he arrived, but now her eyes are red and puffy, mascara running, and her hair mussed. Lovely in a different way.  


“Let’s try this once again, and please be honest with me, as I have been honest with you,” Hannibal begins and her eyes flash to him. “I want to know if you enjoy the work you do, revel in the carnage, or is it really just drudgery, a chore? Answer carefully.”  


She sniffles, “I don’t know, I-“  


“Not good enough, Cassandra.”  


She stops, looking like she might explode and squeezing her hands into tight fists. “FINE! Yes!!” she shouts at him. “I enjoy it. It’s not fun like, like a game, but it’s… it’s satisfying.”  


Hannibal raises an eyebrow, waiting as her breathing increases again.  


“I’m good at it- I’m so good at it. I…” She falters and stops.  


“And? You’re doing so well, Cassandra, don’t quit on me now. You owe it to yourself to give this life; you’ve run from it for so long.”  


“And… nothing,” Cassandra sighs and collapses back in her chair. “Are you happy now? Yes, I like dismembering the dead bodies my fucking boss carts up here, feeding them to my beetles and snails, and turning what’s left into fertilizer for my plants. Are you done? Have I given you enough?”  


“Almost, but my last question is more of a request.”  


Cassandra grumbles, “What is it then?”  


“I want to watch you at work. I want to see the process.” He expected her attitude, but it still rubs him the wrong way. He put a lot of planning into today.  


She shrugs and waves a hand dismissively, “I don’t have anyone here now, Paolo hasn’t called in a while… A long while for him, actually.”  


“Leave that to me.”  


Cassandra runs a hand over her face, through her hair. “I’m tired, I don’t want to do this anymore… Wait… How did you know-“  


Hannibal stands, cutting her off, and takes Cassandra’s hands to pull her up out of her chair. She stands hesitantly. Cassandra used to think she understood Hannibal, at the very least by virtue of how he evaded understanding. She miscalculated.  


“I insist, there will be time for rest later. Besides, this will be a new experience for you,” Hannibal says, propelling her to the stairs.  


“… How?”  


“This time, it’s someone you know.”

#### XIX

Time stops completely. I am painfully aware of the blood caking under my fingernails and every crease in my knuckles, sticky and thick up to my elbows, through my undershirt, slippery between my toes. A second skin. The metallic and bitter taste fills my mouth, but swallowing does nothing to eradicate the flavor. My mouth is pure sandpaper.  


I hear my breath faintly over the roaring in my ears. Hannibal is speaking to me, but I’m only focusing on bringing myself back to the present. The deep, fuzzy feeling behind my eyes beckons. I need to stay here. Hannibal’s presence here feels inexplicably wrong even though his presence in my life already feels like such a necessary constant.  


How did I let this happen?  


“You’re not supposed to be down here,” I hear someone say. Me?  


“Why, you invited me down here,” Hannibal says with a false hurt in his voice. “I was so enjoying watching you.”  


“Yeah, well, the show is over; it’s all over,” I whisper and notice the snail sliming across the table. “Roomba!” I gasp and scoop the massive invertebrate off the metal. I know all my snails by name, they are my only true colleagues, after all.  


Hannibal chews slowly on his persimmon while I busy myself with returning snails to their proper tanks. “Bissel, how did you get all the way over here??” Bissel oozes lazily over the top of one of the beetle chests.  


Hannibal slides down to the floor from his perch on the table, plucking Dyson off the edge of the open chest cavity of the body between us. He offers me the snail and I snatch it away, throwing Hannibal a withering look.  


My friends put away safely, I turn slowly to face the much larger, bloodier issue. This would be less of an issue if I retreated back into the heady numbness I can’t quite dislodge. I go to run my hands over my face or through my hair, and notice the blood caking my hands, and groan loudly.  


“What the fuck, Hannibal?!” I take a shuddering breath and blink through the fog in my head. “What the fuck.”  


“Are you really that surprised?”  


“Uh, yeah,” a nervous, stuttering laugh escapes me. “I knew you were off, but… What are you wearing?”  


The plastic of his clear raincoat squeaks softly as he shrugs and drops the rest of his persimmon on the floor. “Aren’t you going to finish?”  


“Fuck you.” That felt like a bad idea as I said it. Hannibal’s face flashes from cool curiosity to anger and back again.  


I stoop to pick up the knives on the floor and grab the side of the table as the lab spins around me. My feet slip and I nearly fall face first into the still-spreading pool of blood on the tile floor. I still haven’t looked at the face of the person on my table… because I apparently removed the head and it rests face down on the stainless steel. Hannibal watches me struggle upright with the same mildly interested nonchalance he might watch me pour resin over gold leaf and dried rosehips.  


I’m in no position to attack him, but I want to slice that little grin the fuck off his face.  


“Don’t misdirect anger at yourself at me; it’s unbecoming of someone with your skills.”  


“Stop talking.” I sigh and breathe deeply. I need to think, center, work my way out of this. I rarely come down here in the day for anything, and I never process bodies. It’s not conducive to the state of mind I need to be alright with what I do. Strangely, I don’t seem to be in that state of mind now, and I’m doing alright. I feel fine, actually, besides the everything else.  


What do we know?  


We know I’m in my basement with an unknown body I’m about halfway done processing. We know Hannibal knows I handle dead humans in this way, and we can assume he knows how long I and my family have performed this service. The past hours swim around my head like fragments of a dream and every time I try to focus on one, it swirls away. I groan again.  


Oh, and Hannibal apparently kills people. There’s that small detail. Fine. I already know many killers, what’s one more? There’s no coming back from this. There’s no coy smile, subtle redirection, or feigned ignorance that will fix my predicament. It’s over.  


“So now what, huh? What was your big plan for when I woke up?” I ask, gesturing at the lab, the body. “You started this, dragged me down here, what do you want from me?”  


“I started nothing; you’ve been playing at this outcome for years,” Hannibal says with an infuriating certainty. “I did not start this, but I will see its end.”  


I roll my eyes; he’s so fucking pretentious. My skin crawls, knowing I found his obscure posturings so irresistible a week ago. “Am I supposed to dispose of bodies for you, too? Or you’ll spill my secret to your FBI friends?”  


Hannibal shakes his head, “Nothing so predictable, Cassandra. I want to help you. I think we could even help each other.”  


I scoff, “Do I look like I need your help?”  


“Yes. Might I recommend gloves next time?”  


My knife points to him, “Fuck you, Hannibal.” I steel my nerves and roll the head over by its blood-caked gray hair. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again, instead flapping my arms in an exasperated gesture. “You brought me the rude lady from my gallery opening? Are you serious?”  


“Dolores, yes. I suggest you watch your tone with me, Cassandra.”  


“You know what?” I finish ripping bottom half of the leg away in a spray of gore and sucking noises, and Hannibal doesn’t flinch when the splatter hits his plastic suit protector. I apparently neglected to drain Dolores during my trip.  


“I think I get to be mad. I think I’m entitled to be pissed the fuck off. I think I deserve it after all you put me through. Now what. Do. You. Want?” My words are punctuated by the crackling pops of Dolores Tinsley’s other knee joint breaking. Like it or not, something needs to be done with her. Running to the authorities isn’t an option, something Hannibal knew and exploited.  


Hannibal doesn’t reply, instead staring me down as his anger begins to warp the air in the lab. I don’t care.  


“You come into my home, drug me, coerce me into this,” I point at Dolores and her foggy eyes staring into nothing. “How dare you? And this!! Am I going to have anything coming back to me because you brought her here?”  


Hannibal frowns, his offense obvious, “Of course not, what do you take me for?”  


“Oh, sorry, forgive me for worrying I might get a little kickback for your body dumping here at my house.”  


He inhales deeply, releasing it slowly, “You left me no other choice. I did everything I could to create a safe space. I’ve been patient, even when you lied through your teeth, to my face, in my home.” He gives me a pointed look, like our transgressions against each other were the same. “I felt enough was enough… I wanted to help you. I wanted to be your-”  


I scoff again, shaking my head, “You’re unbelievable. I DON’T NEED HELP!” The last words come out as a scream and Hannibal’s lip curls before his face takes on the usual mask of indifference.  


“I know this life hasn’t been easy for you; I don’t blame you for hiding it so fiercely… You know, I hope we can come back from this.”  


I pause, the hurt in his voice is real this time, barely detectable under the controlled fury at my “insolence,” but it’s there. I can’t doubt his sincerity, his deep belief his actions rule in my benefit some way or another. He chose every gift he brought me today so carefully…  


I clear my throat, “Why her?”  


“You know why.”

All I can do is what I know: I finish the job. Hannibal watches me silently, only asking me to separate her tongue and package it away into a cooler filled with dry ice and other organs. I don’t have the mental capacity to consider what that means, but my stomach still turns.  


What can I say? Nana never prepared me for what to do when this happens because it’s never supposed to go this far. There’s one option, but for all my upset, I don’t know if I’m angry enough to make that call. I don’t think Hannibal would put me at risk of investigation because it opens him up to the same scrutiny. Small comforts.  
He says he wants to help me, and I believe him, but he wants to help me in the twisted way that benefits him the most. If he wanted me dead, he’s had more than enough opportunities. I’ve blindly dawdled around his home, drunk, naked, my guard down. I knew he was strange, but I assumed in a harmlessly eclectic and over-wealthy sort of commissioning-art-made-with-human-bones and being weird about food and clashing paisleys… not… this.  


The work done, I look down at my bloody hands and arms, searching for any of my own skin through the carnage and finding none. He must have suggested I took off my sweater and work in just my undershirt to protect the wool. How prudent. I look from the shower stall, back to Hannibal, who inclines his head and raises his eyebrow slightly.  


I huff, “Whatever, this might as well happen, too.”  


My clear PVC shower liner offers little protection from Hannibal’s attentive gaze, but I shed my clothes and ease into the hot stream of water. Pink and red swirl around the floor and splatter up the white tile sides, small… bits… fall off me and down the drain. Untangling my hair with blood matting and gunking it up takes more concentration than I’m willing to lend to anything right now.  


I don’t need to look to know Hannibal watches me with the same passive interest he watched me rip Dolores’ mandible away from her skull. A shiver courses through me despite the scalding water; they’ve never had names before.  


This is all wrong, it all went so wrong. I can’t find the usual peace and clarity my post-processing showers usually bring me, not with him watching my every move, knowing he’s been down here before.  


I pause, how did I know that?  


Dolores said rude things to me, about my art, but I’ve endured worse from peers, friends. She didn’t deserve to die for that, and yet… A memory finally materializes with enough clarity for me to remember words. His words, or mine?  


I’ve never scrubbed so much blood off myself. My fingernails are a lost cause and I’ll need to wait till I get to my bathroom upstairs to finish cleansing the past few hours from my person. What little comfort the shower offers finally expires and the water turns to ice. The faucets squeak closed, and I rub my face, inhaling the sharp, medicinal scent of the anti-bacterial soap that always dries my skin too much but leaves me feeling stripped and clean.  


Let’s get this over with.  


Hannibal waits with an open towel in his outstretched arms. My eyes flick to the open, empty, towel cabinet, and I grit my teeth. I consider making a break for it, but the cold tile sends shivers up my legs and I dash to the warmth of his arms. Hannibal gently wraps me in the fuzzy towel, and I accept this further indignity stiffly, knowing if I saw the smug expression on his face, I’d definitely try something stupid.  


He’s such an asshole, and I’m such an idiot. Years, decades of work and legacy, washed down the drain with Dolores’ blood and other fluids. Nana would beat me with her wooden spoon so hard I couldn’t sit for a week, were she here. And then she would call Paolo and his boys, and Hannibal would cease to be an issue.  


But she’s not here. The idea of siccing Paolo on Hannibal, condemning him to such a death and then having him on my table, in pieces, and grinding his cleaned bones to meal for my garden in the Spring… It’s unthinkable, but it’s the correct course of action.  


His skull could make a nice paperweight, even if a little thick and over-inflated.  


“It’s been a pleasure, watching you work,” Hannibal says quietly in my ear, almost close enough to feel his lips on my skin. I shiver again, and not from the cold.  
Hannibal follows as I wordlessly exit the lab, clutching the towel closely and hissing at the icy metal staircase on my bare feet.  


“Could I-“  


“Don’t touch me.”  


Apollo is happy to be back inside. His thick fur suits him for long hours in the cold, but I curse internally, knowing Hannibal somehow to blame for my dog’s strange behavior. I hug Apollo, blinking back tears and silently promising to never lock him out again, to never keep him from his job.  


I take a deep breath, “I’m going to get dressed. You’re going to stay down here, and we’ll finish figuring this out.”  


Hannibal says nothing, only taking a seat at the kitchen table and crossing one leg over the other. He could wait forever, now that he has me where he wants me. I’m only prolonging the inevitable.  


At the top of the stairs, before I close Apollo and I inside, I speak one of Apollo’s training commands loud enough for Hannibal to hear: “Frouros.” Sentry.  


Apollo sits at attention dutifully and I turn to face my studio. This brings back more of the trip I so unexpectedly experienced, but still only impressions. Thoughts and emotions I struggle to keep separate from reality. Spoken words becoming beliefs. I’ve never killed anyone, but I’ve done everything tangential to killing. I’ve done everything that comes after, and never considered how blindly I believed what I was told my whole life. Hannibal was right about that.  


An array of razor-sharp craft knives catches my attention, but I push the thought away quickly. Hannibal possesses a staggering amount of strength under all the brushed wool and silk ties. A direct attack right now would be pure foolishness. Any retaliation would have be later, when he least expects it.  


Grinning skulls in Hannibal’s art piece mock me and I look away, hurrying to my room to dress and try to stop thinking about everything. It finally occurs to me to look for my phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. Of course.  


“Where do we go from here? What all did I tell you?” I know as I ask, he would never reveal everything I said in my altered state, if anything, till it benefitted his plan.  
Hannibal removed his plastic raincoat. I sit opposite him at the kitchen table in pajamas and fuzzy socks, twisting my wet hair into a braid. Apollo sits at my knee, panting and gleefully unaware of the current tension in the air.  


Hannibal licks his lips, “It’s more something I’d need to show, rather than tell.”  


I cross my arms, “You’re not giving me a choice in this, are you?”  


“You always have a choice,” He says, but his expression says otherwise.  


“Let me rephrase: if I don’t go along with this… whatever it is, you’ll tell on me, and/or kill me.”  


He shrugs, “A choice all the same.”  


I scoff and notice the satiny box on the table. My temple throbs again for the first time in weeks. “I could tell on you too, you know.”  


“And who are they more likely to believe?”  


He has a point. I bury my head in my hands and groan. I have a basement full of dead bodies and a career of art filled with human remains. Hannibal almost definitely has a basement of dead bodies, yes, but what’s the word of a new artist against a trusted psychiatrist?  


“Let’s say, rhetorically, I do what you ask and go along with whatever it is you have planned… What do you want me to do?”  


Hannibal waves his hand, “Nothing too unfamiliar to you. I’m merely attempting to merge your two gifts. You like to think them separate, or more unrelated than they are.”  


“Hannibal…” I rub my eyes in helpless frustration. “I started making the pieces I do as a way to cope and dispose of extra parts. Our handlers thought it was funny and it… grew.”  


A small shake of his head, is that pity in his eyes? “I don’t believe that and neither do you,” he says standing and circling the table to me. I’m unable to meet his gaze and Apollo does nothing, thinking he’s surrounded by friends.  


“Do not confuse passivity for a lack of participation; participation begins at voyeurism,” Hannibal tells me, leaning on the edge of Nana’s kitchen table. His voice bounces around the empty ground floor of my home. I suddenly miss the terrible floral wallpaper and lumpy couch.  


“Upstairs, you told me your kills are used to tell stories; their bodies used to influence viewers into feelings and experiences they’ve never had before,” Hannibal says, adjusting a gold cufflink.  


“I don’t kill-“  


“Please, spare me your naivety, Cassandra,” he says with annoyance and a wave of his hand. “It’s a discredit to you, at this point.”  


My urge to leap at him from my seat grows, but I stay quiet.  


“The key is in your artwork. I only want to show you a new possibility, a new way to express what I see, and what you refuse to acknowledge. Rather, refused to acknowledge till this evening.”  


This rings a vague bell, far away in my head. I swallow hard, “There’s nothing to show… I just repurpose them.”  


Hannibal sighs, “If you insist on missing the point, fine. But know this…” He turns and suddenly grips my jaw in his hand, faster than anything I could have prepared for. My breath catches in shock and he turns my face to his, uncomfortably close. I don’t know what else to do, genuinely afraid of what he might do to me if I resist.  


“Their purpose, Cassandra, is to die. For you. For your vision. ‘A means to an end,’ isn’t that what you said?”  


His words send a cold shiver down my spine and swallow hard, ignoring the growing part of me that agrees. He’s right. My brain finally works through the fear.  


“Prostatevo!”  


Apollo lurches up in a flurry of white fur and snarling teeth, wedging between Hannibal and me. Hannibal releases me and steps back, and I release a shaky breath, rubbing away the heat from his hand. It’s reassuring to know Apollo never forgot his training.  


“Iremia,” I say quietly, and Apollo stops, sitting by my side and looking up to me with hopeful eyes. He doesn’t like being mean to people, his breed more suited to watching over livestock and small children. My family was denied a more vicious guard dog after Eris passed, the Rescue trainers not believing their prize animals needed to be wasted on a suburban chopshop.  


Hannibal keeps his distance, looking between me and the dog with a sour look, his little moment ruined. I can still feel his iron grip on my jaw, but the violation sparked a memory. My face stays neutral, my confidence renewed by Apollo’s presence, while I try to hold onto images of bodies wrapped in silk, surrounded by plants and fruit trees.  


“How many people have you… repurposed?”  


Hannibal’s eyes flick up to me, “Weren’t you listening?” He whispers. “I don’t repurpose, Cassandra, I give them purpose.”  


My newfound confidence shrivels away again. It was nice while it lasted.  


“In time, you’ll come to feel the same way.”  


Blessed silence, for a time. I can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional drip from the tap.  


“Who are you to ask me to unmake myself in this way?” I’m at a loss for other words. My life was going… fine… before he walked in. Hannibal efficiently, completely destroyed any sort of stability I only just began to cultivate after moving back to Maryland and burying my grandmother. He took it all away with such assurance and entitlement.  


“The term ‘unmake’ implies you were complete to begin with.”  


An exasperated noise escapes me. “Fine, fine, fucking fine. I’ll… try it.” I spread my hands wide in mock surrender. I could always call Paolo later. “But I have terms.”  


He inclines his head, “You think you’re in a position to bargain?”  


“Doesn’t matter,” I shake my head. “Do not. Ever. Drug me again. If at any point I suspect you have or will, it’s over.” He doesn’t reply. “Well?”  


Hannibal sniffs and adjusts his suit jacket, “I won’t put you under the influence without your knowledge, you have my word.”  


“Second, whatever this is,” I gesture between the two of is, “can’t get in the way of my job. If Paolo suspects anything, he’ll just kill both of us.”  


“Is that all?”  


“No, actually, it’s not all,” I say with more edge. “No more lying… if you can promise this, then I will do the same,” I tell him when he seems about to protest. “You’ll get any answer you want, but if I feel like you’re hiding something, I’m out.”  


He regards me with a strange, bemused expression. I doubt anyone ever required this of him, made demands of this nature, in this context. It’s uncharted territory for both of us, so why am I the only one that seems lost?  


Hannibal finally swallows and nods, “Very well, I promise not to drug you, keep you from your duties to Paolo, or deceive you, from this point on.”  


I lean back in my chair with a satisfied sigh, even though I don’t believe in his promise for a second. At least I’m trying to go down on my own terms. “Fine. Okay. Now what?”  


“I’ll be in touch.”  


And he leaves me, finally, pulling my cell phone from his suit pocket and silently placing it on the table. I snatch it up with a huff. Hannibal takes his briefcase, his cooler of Dolores’ organs, and wordlessly begins down the front path to his Bentley.  


“Hannibal.”  


He turns.  


“If you ever touch my dog again, I’ll kill you.”  


A small smile, “That’s the spirit.”  


The front door slams closed, and I lean my back against it, sinking to the floor and scratching Apollo’s head absentmindedly. My head didn’t hurt this much after the concussion Hannibal totally didn’t cause.  


What a mess I’ve created.  


My phone begins to ring.


	11. Murder Weekend Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Cassandra's introduction to the New Normal.

#### XX

“You told me he was large, Hannibal, but… Jesus,” Will Graham whistles low.  


Apollo bounds through the fresh powder snow, dwarfing the largest dogs in Will’s pack. Will’s dogs are happy for a new face and Apollo can barely contain his excitement at the new surroundings and friends.  


“I have to thank you again, Will. With the holiday coming, every dog boarder in a two-hour radius was completely full.”  


“No, no, it’s… fine. What’s one more when you already have six? …Even if he is the size of three dogs.” Will sips a cup of coffee and glances to Hannibal’s Bentley in the driveway. “Just wondering how you got him in there, is all.”  


Hannibal suppresses a noise of displeasure. They watch Cassandra struggle with the folding of a complex protective car seat cover from their place on Will’s porch steps. He was unwilling to wait till after the holiday, and Cassandra couldn’t employ a house-sitter for obvious reasons. This was the alternative.  


Desperate times, and all that.  


“So much for professional contexts,” Will quips before taking another drink.  


Hannibal side-eyes Will, “It progressed more quickly than I expected, yes.” He knows what Will is getting at, but this weekend promises anything but romance. Cassandra’s unwilling tolerance of her new situation and barely concealed disdain for Hannibal spells a tedious undertaking for them both. Will hasn’t taken his eyes off Cassandra and her fussing with Apollo’s necessities in a large bag. His expression is inscrutable, even for Hannibal. Will’s progression fell behind Hannibal’s intended timeline, but it’s nothing that can’t wait.  


They step back as the dogs barrel by in a flurry of snow and excited yips. Cassandra slams the trunk closed with a grunt, her cheeks already flushed pink in the cold. She whistles loud and shrill through her teeth and all the dogs stop and look her way at attention. Apollo trots over and she bends to rub the sides of his massive head.  


“I get the attraction,” Will says. “Your attraction, at least.” Cassandra stands well out of earshot, but Will keeps his voice low. The other dogs surround Cassandra, demanding affection and she obliges readily. It’s difficult to remember what the future holds when surrounded by seven excited dogs.  


Hannibal hums, “Tell me what you think it is.”  


Will knocks his head side-to-side, “She has a familiar sort of… unwillingness to acknowledge that-which-does-not-serve, I think?”  


Hannibal can only raise an eyebrow.  


“She’s smart, quick, like you said. You both have some pretty obscure interests and hobbies.” Will shrugs, “And then there’s… well, she is pretty.”  


“I suppose that’s a word for it. I find something new every time I look at her,” Hannibal says, and it’s no lie. Cassandra’s new aura of intensity and defiance only excites him more, in a sick kind of way. Hannibal wished her animosity were directed at someone else, of course, but he can’t have his cake and eat it too.  


Will makes a skeptical noise and swigs the rest of his coffee in one gulp to keep from saying anything else.  


“Cassandra,” Hannibal calls and her head pulls up from pressing her forehead against Apollo’s. “It’s time to go.”  


“Where are you two headed?”  


“It’s a surprise,” Hannibal tells him, holding a finger to his lips.  


Cassandra keeps her expressions in check easily, but she loathes him for making her do this. She would hate him even if Hannibal put the dog up in a luxury pet hotel with massages and kennel live streams. But the last thing he needs is another demonstration of the 140-pound dog’s guardian training. Apollo follows by her side as she trudges through to snow and heaves the bag of supplies onto Will’s porch.  


She pulls a paper out of her coat pocket and passes it to Will. “This is his vet’s information.”  


Ever since she came to in the secret room under her house, Cassandra kept the hard edge to her voice. The air around her warped and she bristled at Hannibal’s every word. Hannibal enjoyed it before, when she used it on Paolo and others over the phone conversations he listened to when he had little else to do, but now she regards him as another unfortunate part of her business she tolerates. Will notices, must notice, that her demeanor now is identical to the moments she held the Ripper crime scene photos and gave her thoughts. Will doesn’t mention it.  


“He’s exceptionally well trained, except Hannibal turned him into a beggar. Sit,” Cassandra raises a closed fist, a training motion, and Apollo obeys. His tail wags through the snow, eager to please but looking over his shoulder at the rest of the dogs playing.  


“I couldn’t resist,” Hannibal says. “He loves people food.”  


She barely keeps from rolling her eyes.  


Will whistles his own dogs over. Cassandra kneels and hugs Apollo one last time, “You be good, for Will, okay? He’ll tell me if you misbehave.”  


“No, I won’t,” Will tells Apollo. “It’ll be our secret.”  


“I definitely over-packed for him, but-“ she stops and sniffles, wiping a tear away. “Sorry… the cold makes my eyes water.”  


“It’s hard, leaving them behind, I know,” Will says gently.  


Cassandra nods her gratitude and reluctantly and follows Hannibal to his car, waving and thanking Will again.  


With Cassandra in her seat, Hannibal ducks in after her. Her mouth screws up a scowl and she begins to protest, but Hannibal’s eyes warn against it. She accepts the kiss stiffly, even when his tongue traces the edge of her bottom lip.  


Hannibal pulls back, revealing to Cassandra that Will already went inside with all the dogs. He closes the door on her noise of outrage.  


“That was low, even for you,” Cassandra grumbles when Hannibal gets in the driver’s seat.  


“I’m only keeping up appearances, Cassandra,” Hannibal says, tugging off his gloves. She throws him a dirty look and drinks out of the preposterously large water bottle she brought to avoid any of Hannibal’s offerings for as long as possible.  


“I find it odd. You knew I was dangerous and threatening, even if you couldn’t say why, but you were decidedly enamored with me then. Now, your suspicions confirmed, you won’t have anything to do with me?”  


Cassandra shifts uncomfortably in her seat, “It’s like they say, ignorance is bliss.”  


“You would rather be ignorant?”  


“I’d would rather I never met you in the first place.”  


Hannibal tuts, “You don’t mean that. Your life is much more interesting now.”  


“It was plenty interesting before you.”  


“And yet, you were bored. Stagnating.”  


Cassandra scoffs and turns to look out the window at the passing countryside without another word. Hannibal grins to himself in his victory. He allows her sour attitude as a part of her grieving process and she’s entitled to her emotions within certain stretches of civility.  


She grieves the person she believed herself to be. Extracting someone, separating them from the fabricated version they cultivate and operate through life is no easy task, even after all of Hannibal’s practice. Every person is different. It would progress faster if Hannibal went against her wishes and used his preferred methods, but he promised. How Cassandra managed to get Hannibal to promise that evaded him still. She asked, he relented. He even allowed a dog in his car.  


The stages of grieving do not follow a linear timeline, but Cassandra grapples with Anger now. Anger at Hannibal, anger at herself, anger with family and her superiors, anger at whatever higher power for placing her here. A necessary process.  


Cassandra already admitted her love of her bloody second life, Hannibal needs to remind her, show her what it could be. If Hannibal can discover when the process started, the event that planted the seed of doubt, and help it grow… Cassandra would come undone in his hands and beg him to put her back together.  


After ten minutes of driving, Hannibal pulls over on the side of an empty road and brings out a length of black silk from the glove compartment. Cassandra’s puzzled expression turns to indignation.  


“Are you serious?”  


“For now, until we have a better understanding. You won’t agree to medication, so this is the alternative.”  


“Oh, I understand you perfectly, Doctor. But, fine,” She reaches for the fabric, but he pulls it away.  


“If you don’t mind, I’ll tie it myself, to be sure it’s done properly.”  


“I mind,” she practically growls.  


“I insist.”  


Cassandra glared at him for a heartbeat and wordlessly twisted around in the seat. She flinched at his touch, her contempt for him falling off her in waves. The silk wrapped around her head numerous times and tied in a secure knot in the back. Hannibal brushed a still-fading love bite on the back of her neck as he withdrew his hands. She shrugged him off with a hiss and turned back around, forcing herself into the corner of her seat and as far away from him as possible.  


Hannibal frowns, “Do you have to pout?”  


“Sorry, Doctor. I don’t mean to ruin all your fun, but I find it difficult to be excited about blackmail and God-knows-what else you have planned as you drive me, blindfolded, to an undisclosed location after leaving my best friend and only family left alive at a virtual stranger’s house.”  


Hannibal blinks at that. God has no idea what he has planned for her.  


“Will is going to take excellent care of your dog, you needn’t worry.”  


He sees her eyebrow twitch with incredulity through the blindfold.  


“Come now, Cassandra, will be enlightening for you. You could even have fun, if you dropped your tantrum. It’s not me you’re angry with, anyway. You’re wasting your energy.”  


“I am plenty fucking angry with you, Dr. Lecter,” she snaps back, spitting his name. She reverted back to using his professional title as a jab. “There aren’t words to accurately describe how pissed off I am.”  


Hannibal glances at her from the corner of his eye, “Are you angry enough to kill me?”  


“I haven’t decided yet.”  
__

_He clicks his tongue, knowing full well what a firm hold he has around her.  
_

_As he left Cassandra’s home a few days ago, her phone rang. Hannibal sat in his car, listening in on the conversation. Paolo had a body to drop off and Cassandra accepted, per her job requirements.  
_

_“Paolo…” She began before her supervisor ended the call.  
_

_“What?”  
_

_A long pause, as Cassandra battled with herself. Hannibal froze, mentally preparing for a longer night ahead of him than he initially considered.  
_

_“Hello? Marder, babe, what the fuck is it? I got food getting cold.”  
_

_Cassandra inhaled sharply, “Sorry, the incoming storm is messing with the phones. I, uh, I have a full freezer. For the Rescue. Probably a good idea to bring a few coolers tonight.”  
_

_“Yeah, whatever, fine, is that it?”  
_

_“That’s it, Paolo.”  
_

_The line died and Hannibal’s eyes glittered in the dark. The next stage could begin. Out of curiosity, he keyed into her phone’s ambient microphone and listened Cassandra sobbing quietly for a few minutes before he drove home.  
_

Hannibal takes a deep breath, like a parent dealing with an ill-behaved child, he needs to avoid stooping to her level and keep his mind clear, his voice even. “Like it or not, Cassandra, this is your result and you have no one to blame but yourself for your current predicament. You were plying for this outcome long before I came into the picture.”  


“You’re really attached to that idea, Dr. Lecter, you sure it’s not all in your head? Maybe you’re projecting, and this is aaaaallll a monumental waste of time.”  


His hands tighten on the wheel, but he drops the subject. Cassandra’s will is too tempered by her years of bloody work, navigating the New York art scene, and whatever innate, wild stubbornness that runs in her family. Hannibal resolves to wait until later, when she will be more perceptive to his suggestions.  


“I’m curious, what did you tell Paolo you were doing this weekend, that he let you off?”  


“I said I had important artist business in New York. It’s also coming up on Thanksgiving and they’re not likely to need me…” Cassandra picks at a loose thread on her pants. “I’ll get busy again at Christmas.”  


“Would you tell me the exact nature of your agreement? I’ve a few hypotheses but it would be simpler if you told me outright,” Hannibal takes an exit off the freeway and doubles back to be certain Cassandra knows nothing about their destination.  


She leans in her seat, tilting her head back and taking a preparatory breath, “No, I knew the question would come sooner or later. I’m surprised it took you this long.”  


“I held on to the hope you would come to me of your own accord.”  


Cassandra snorts, half amused, half dismissive, “Yeah, right. Ah, well… When my Great Grandma Elena began her ‘business’, she was an independent woman. It wasn’t until my Grandma, Nana as I call her, that it went wrong.”  


“What happened?”  


“She got married,” Cassandra laughs darkly. “Married into the family she worked for. Paolo is technically my cousin if you go back far enough… You can see the good it does me.”  


“Marrying into the family made your situation worse?” Hannibal watches her closely. Covering her eyes wasn’t ideal, but he could pick up enough based on mouth twitches and body language.  


“When you marry a gambling addict, yeah, it does,” she’s quiet again, lost in memories she typically doesn’t linger on.  


“Grandpa Mick loved… let’s see… he loved horses, dogs, cards, cockfighting, sports, underground boxing rings, hell, he’d bet on two crabs fighting over a French fry if you let him.” Cassandra paused, fiddling with her hands and chewing the inside of her cheek, remembering and trying to calculate the weight of every word. “I’m not entirely convinced he died of natural causes.”  


“You believe your grandmother intervened?”  


Cassandra holds her hands up, “I know he trusted her to give him his daily pill regiment and never double checked her dosing. It wasn’t till after the funeral we found out how bad his luck really was, and the nature of our agreement changed. We suddenly had a mountain of debt to pay and the solution was going from business partners to indentured servitude. The rest his history.”  


Hannibal mulls this over. It explains the tension between Cassandra and her superiors, and their discourteous treatment of her. Shame, if only she put aside her pride and came to him first. He could have helped her then and saved them both the trouble.  


At least the hard way is more interesting.  


They ride in relative silence for a time, listening to Bach’s cello suites.  


“I’ve another question, that just occurred to me,” Hannibal says, and she turns her head in his direction even though she can’t see him. “Your cover is that you’re an artist. Mine is psychiatry. What was your great-grandmother’s?”  


Cassandra sits up and tilts her head in thought, “She was a… Laundress, I think.”  


“And your grandmother?”  


“A Sunday school teacher,” Cassandra giggled at the absurdity and Hannibal let out a chuckle.  


“What about your mother?”  


Cassandra stops then, her face falling as she realized what Hannibal was getting at. “She was an accountant,” she grumbles.  


Hannibal hums but doesn’t remark on the differences in Cassandra and her family’s careers of choice. Cassandra shifts in her seat.  


“That… doesn’t mean anything,” she says, the uneasiness in her voice obvious.  


“I didn’t say it meant anything; what are you having it mean?”  


Cassandra turns away and Hannibal presses harder on the gas pedal. They have a long weekend ahead.

#### Chapter XXI

_The forest behind my house stretches for miles. We used to be isolated out here, but the rest of the world caught up and cheap tinderbox houses sprouted up next to the graceful red brick I grew up in. I haven’t ventured back here in years, but the trees were my second home for time.  
I look down at my cocktail dress and frown. This is not the proper attire for exploring the woods, but the trail stretches ahead of me, unbothered by my lack of jeans and boots. A commotion in the trees draws my attention above. Crows screech and fly away. When face forward I’m met with a familiar sight.  
_

_A dead fox lies at the foot of a massive maple tree. I crane my neck up and see no sky through the thick canopy. The maple’s roots cradle the vixen gently. She’s freshly passed and still soft and warm.  
_

__

_My hand closes over a familiar weight, and I don’t wonder why the spade is there, I just dig. Here, it’s not winter, and the spade bites easily into the soil again and again until the hole is deep enough, and I’m covered in bits of dirt and moss. I close the fox away into the Earth, a familiar apology that will never be enough.  
_

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_The Earth shudders when I walk away from the maple. When I turn back, a woman with the head of a fox crouches in the roots. One arm hangs loose and twisting by golden sinews and her left leg is a cage of screeching swallows. There’s no time to beg or explain. She lunges for me with her one good arm and crystalline teeth, dark eyes flashing.  
It’ll never be enough.  
_

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A familiar warmth grips my hand. In a hazy half-conscious state, my fingers twitch around the other hand. Hannibal’s hand.  


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I suck a sharp breath in, jerking away. “What?” Any drowsiness evaporates immediately. The dream fades into nothing.  


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“We’ve arrived,” I hear him say. “What were you dreaming about?”  


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I’m quiet, scowling at the way he turns my head to undo my knotted blindfold. The silk eases around my eyes, but Hannibal lets it fall around my neck just to make me endure the sensation of the fabric pulling and snaking around my skin till I’m free.  


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“I was chasing a fox through the woods behind my house,” I squeezed my eyes shut tight in the sudden brightness. “It got away.”  


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If he doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t press for the truth. Hannibal gets out of the car and opens my door for me, a sweet gesture ruined by the child locks on the door that keep me from opening it myself from the inside. I’m still blinking in the bright afternoon light, stretching my legs after riding in the car for I’m not sure how long. Hannibal took my phone.  


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When I finally take in my surroundings, I gasp out loud.  


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“Where are we?”  


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Hannibal raises his eyebrow dubiously as he pulls our bags out of the trunk. I walk to the house slowly, trying to absorb as much of the ocean horizon as possible.  


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“Cassandra, come in, please. We can enjoy the view later,” Hannibal calls to me from the doorway. The coastline stretches for miles, rocky and unforgiving, with no sign of other houses or civilization.  


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“It’s not what you expected, is it?” Hannibal leads me around the house with its huge windows and high ceilings.  


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“I’ve stopping letting myself have expectations when it comes to you,” I look out the wall of windows that hang over the sheer drop to the water below.  


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“This will be your room,” Hannibal says, opening a door at the end of a hallway that locks from the outside. Every time I feel a little normal about what’s happening, I’m reminded of where I am, what I’ll be expected to do.  


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“I get my own room?” I venture and immediately regret the question.  


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“You’ll have to go without for the time being, till you earn a place in my bed again,” Hannibal brushes past me and deposits my suitcase on a bench. I can’t suppress my noise of disgust, the flush that tinges my cheeks. Marks left over from that night itch under my clothes.  


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“Don’t take long. To save you the time, the windows are sealed and there’s a security system that will alert me every time this door opens,” He gives me a pleasant smile, like he told me about a hotel’s amenities. _Hotel du Lecter, five-star dining and a house arrest anklet._ The door closes with a high chirp from somewhere else in the house.  


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Bastard.  


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Deep, slow breaths. In, hold, out, hold. Rinsing my face in the bathroom sink does little to quell the panic rising in my chest as the gravity of my situation takes further hold. The heat claws up my throat and festers there till I force it back down. My knuckles go white from my grip on the counter as I try to keep the image of Hannibal’s face covered in my beetles out of my head.  


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“Don’t let him get to you, Cass,” I whisper in the mirror. “That’s what he wants. He’s just trying to shake you up.”  


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I try to distract myself with the expensive looking jars and bottles on the counter, but all the ingredients are in French. I move on, rolling my eyes. My closet contains clothes that would fit me if I could bear putting them on. I count five pairs of red-soled heels.  


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‘The closet’, I correct, not ‘my closet.’  


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Hannibal told me to “keep an open mind and try everything once,” his vagueness anything but comforting. All I can do for now is comply, bide my time, and inflict jabs where I can. I know it’s not wise, trying to get under his skin, but I’m not going to make this easy on him.  
The alarm chirps again when my bedroom door opens.  


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“I trust you found everything suitable?” Hannibal asks when I pad back into the main space in the slippers I brought from home, not the ones by the bed. He notices. Hannibal dislikes the clinical, professional tone he’s taken in his manner with me, and he dislikes my refusal to act with the same grace. But it’s easier to be graceful when you’re winning.  


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“It’s fine,” I reply and frown. On the table across the room, sits a massive peace lily. Its leaves easily span wider than my hand, but they droop in apparent dehydration. Peace lilies are notoriously dramatic, prone to withering pathetically if their watering is missed by a day. My instinct is to fetch water from the tap and correct Hannibal’s mistake.  


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But Hannibal doesn’t make mistakes. The lily is huge, ancient by standards of its species, and its spot on the end table in its gleaming white ceramic pot, is too obvious.  


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“I should hope by now, you’ve figured this one out,” he taps Dolores’ tongue with the flat side of his knife. The tongue I extracted while he watched. Seeing it in the light of day feels wrong and obscene.  


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“You left my home with a cooler filled with her organs, an arm, and the tongue there, Dr. Lecter. Not that much of a mystery,” I push the ailing plant from my mind and force myself to approach the kitchen island, closer to him. The corner of his mouth turns down at his professional title. This day went differently in his original plan.  


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Hannibal purses his lips, “And how does it make you feel?”  


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My stomach turns over when I think about it but, “I figured, if it’s good enough for Apollo, it’s good enough for me.”  


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His hands stop and his eyes flick up to me in a warning. I meet the gaze, the knowledge my revelation gave him pause enough to bolster my confidence.  


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“Do explain.”  


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I knock my head back and forth, picking out words. “Aside from what I do, there’s a place we call the Rescue a few hours outside of town. On the outside, they present as a sanctuary for euthanasia-bound dogs, but they’re just another way to dispose of bodies.”  


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Hannibal waits for me to continue, a vein pulses in his forehead.  


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“I know they work for a few different organizations, but the bodies brought to them are processed down and fed to the dogs. There’s a reason Apollo is in the top one-percentile for size and weight in his breed.” I miss Apollo’s bulk and gentle eyes, and the peace of mind his presence gave me. If I used a different command a few nights ago, I wouldn’t be here now, but getting blood out of his fur takes ages.  


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Hannibal opens his mouth and closes it again. A first. But then his face softens, and the indifference returns, “It must be nice for you, owning a dog already so enlightened.”  


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He leaves me to stew in my uneasiness. I search in vain for a clock anywhere in the house but find none on the walls or my nightstand. Hannibal’s stove is too high-end to come with a digital time display, and the microwave’s clock has a neat piece of electrical tape over it. The overcast sky offers little help deciphering the time. We left my house at 7:00 this morning, drove an hour to Will’s to drop off Apollo, and then rode in the car for… I have no clue. At least I woke up with enough alertness I’m certain I fell asleep of my own accord and not from any of Hannibal’s tinctures.  


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A watch rests on the counter by Hannibal’s cutting board but reaching for it puts my fingers closer to his knife than I’m willing to risk. Being in this house with Hannibal and his knife is risk enough.  


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I might as well. “What time is it?” I ask as casually as possible.  


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“Let’s see.” Hannibal picks up the watch, “It’s… time for you to go to the refrigerator and fetch the bok choy and ginger root, please.” The watch goes into his pocket.  


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“Right,” I sigh inwardly. The bok choy’s green leaves are like something out of Nana’s garden. I can’t be squeamish about Hannibal’s diet when I’ve eaten crops fertilized by human-based nutrient mixes for my entire life. The veggies are a few digestive tracts removed from eating humans outright, but it offers me little room for outrage.  


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Hannibal slides a knife out of its block, and I hesitate to accept it. “You’re sure you want me to have that?”  


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His expression turns cynical, glancing me up and down like the notion of me presenting a threat, even armed, is laughable. “What are you planning to do with it that I might have concerns?”  


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“I’m still thinking about it,” I take the blade, testing its weight. If I made a move, Hannibal could have me dead before I made it around the side if the kitchen island. I confused the twinges of fear in his Baltimore kitchen for excitement because I experience either emotion so seldomly.  


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Hannibal peels the top layer of flesh from the tongue. With the bumpy taste buds removed, it looks like a normal piece of meat. I stopped grating ginger to watch, wondering how many tongues Hannibal has peeled in his lifetime.  


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He notices me watching, “You want to know why.” A statement, not a question.  


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“It’s not that important. She’s dead now,” I reply. I sound like Nana.  


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“She died when she insulted you at Folle. The interim between then and the time of last breath was merely a matter of convenience for us.”  


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I shake my head in disbelief, “You didn’t need to kill her. Not for that… She was a nuisance at best. I wouldn’t be where I am now if I couldn’t handle a rude comment here and there.”  


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“You’re where you are now because I want you to be here, and nuisance is reason enough,” Hannibal slices the tongue into thin strips, giving me a pointed stare. “I don’t need to kill anyone the same way you don’t need to turn bones into sculptures.”  


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I frown, resuming my work on the ginger. I stopped questioning my compulsion in using the bones years ago. Every trip down that path felt dark and confusing, and it’s easier to keep making.  


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“She was tedious, and her nephew is a talentless hack. Perhaps the tragic disappearance of his aunt will inspire him to create something worth the paint.”  


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“Aha, there,” I tap the marble island. “You didn’t do it for me; you had an ulterior motive and you benefitted from it. None of this whole production is for me, like you insist. It’s all about you.”  


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“I never said I wouldn’t benefit from this, and you’re in no position to act selfless.”  


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“What exactly are you getting out of this, then?”  


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The slices of Dolores’ tongue go into a bowl. “All in good time. Now, finish the ginger, please. Dolores’ tongue is unfortunately sharp and tough, even in death. It will need every minute in the marinade it can get.”  


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I bear down on the grater and work the root into a paste while Hannibal slathers the tongue in oil and garlic. This is not normal, I remind myself, even if he’s trying to make this feel like a casual activity. Hannibal unbuttoned the first couple buttons on his light blue shirt and rolled up the sleeves, like he did the last time I helped him in the kitchen. He brought here for a reason known only to him, and my hopes of coming away from this place intact dwindle by the minute.  


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Hannibal stretches cling film over the bowl and regards me with the usual inscrutable appraisal.  


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“I can’t make you understand, but you could make this easier on yourself if you tried to enjoy your time here.”  


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My hand tightens around the knife. His berating makes me feel like a child dragged along a boring field trip, and that may be all this is to him. I’m an inconvenient chore, but he’s making the best of it. This would be easier to understand if I knew what the fuck he wanted from me, because it’s not about the killing. He could pick anyone for that.  


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“Maybe I had different plans for my weekend, Dr. Lecter, and furthermore…” I bring the knife down on the end of the bok choy with a hard crack against the cutting board. “… furthermore, maybe I had different plans for my life.”  


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I didn’t have a plan, at all, but I can pretend. I’ve thought of running from my job, but Paolo would find me, especially if I tried to maintain my art practice. Hannibal’s eyebrow quirks up. A few days ago, before all of that, my plan for the weekend was working on his sculpture and avoiding my gallerists emails.  


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“Fine, Cassandra, I’ll bite. What else is there for you? What would you make of yourself if you had the choice you’re so certain was denied?” There’s an impatient pity in his eyes. My beetles go for the eyes first.  


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I don’t answer right away, avoiding his gaze and rending the veggies into strips, “It’s stupid.”  


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“No, tell me,” Hannibal braces himself against the counter and looks at me expectantly.  


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I smile to myself, “When I was younger, I thought it would… well…”  


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“Yes?”  


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“I wondered what life out from under the rule of violent and selfish men would be like. I bet it’s nice.”  


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Hannibal frowns, displeased that I threw him in the same arena as Paolo and his cronies. Paolo is volatile and crude, but he’s dumb and I deal with him easily enough. Hannibal… well, I underestimated him once and now I get to eat a human tongue for lunch.  


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I shrug and put the knife on the counter, “But here I am. Frying pan, fire, you know.”  


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“You could still choose this, Cassandra,” Hannibal’s eyes are softer than I expected, which I find more infuriating. This all comes so easily to him; how many others have there been just like me?  


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“You didn’t give me a choice, Dr. Lecter.”  


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“So, choose it anyway. There’s power in choosing, even in the face of no other options.”  


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“You don’t get to ask that of me. I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough for now?”  


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No, Hannibal will never stop asking, or taking. It’ll never be enough.

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	12. Murder Weekend Getaway Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some shopping, some talking, some violence, you know the drill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a minute. Life and school happened. But I am very happy with this chapter, and I hope you all enjoy :)

#### XXII

An alarm chirping draws a half-dressed Hannibal out of his room to find Cassandra filling a pitcher with filtered water. She just woke up, her hair tangled and eyes blinking in the rising sun. 

Cassandra jumps and stops halfway between the sink and the drooping peace lily, hugging the pitcher close. She looks between Hannibal and the plant, almost guilty. 

“I’m trying to limit casualties… the plant doesn’t deserve to be a part of your power trip.” 

Hannibal shrugs, the lose ends of his tie swaying, “Do what you must- but get ready, quickly, we have a long day ahead.” 

She nods and Hannibal leaves her to her watering. Cassandra needs to grow an affinity for this house, a need to protect it. Hannibal figured starting her with plants was gentler than the basement, and so far, it’s working. 

Hannibal chose Vivaldi for the drive- something nice and lively to drown out Cassandra’s heavy quiet. She sits against the car door, arms folded and leg bouncing. Cassandra’s attitude from yesterday has yet to rear its head, but Hannibal knows better than to think her subdued. He felt her calculating and stewing throughout breakfast, and now in his passenger seat. 

Fifteen minutes from their destination, Hannibal reaches over and pulls the blindfold away from Cassandra’s eyes. She shakes out her hair and absorbs the passing highway, scanning the other cars and buildings for a hint of where Hannibal could be taking her. Her eyes flick to the stereo panel, but Hannibal’s electrical tape still covers the clock readout. 

“Where are we going now?” 

“I have a few errands to run and I thought you would rather come along than be locked in the basement or tied to your bed.” A lie, but Hannibal can’t reveal the true nature of this trip. 

Cassandra folds the length of silk and sets it on the dashboard, “I get the strange feeling you don’t trust me.” 

Hannibal side eyes Cassandra, “I wish I could, Cassandra, and I wish you trusted me.” 

“I know, I know, but I have a personal rule against friendships with people that break into my house and drug me without my knowledge.” 

Hannibal’s brow furrows, “But no personal rule against friendships with killers, obviously.” 

Cassandra makes a face; so that’s how it’s going to be today. 

“It was the one time, Cassandra. I needed information, to be sure you were worth the effort. You should consider a guard dog that isn’t so easily bought.” 

Cassandra scoffs, “It’s going to take me months to train the begging out of him, so thank you for that.” Her eyes go wide, and she whips her head back to Hannibal, “Do you mean you’ve drugged me more than once?” 

Hannibal gives her a cynical look. 

“Dr. Lecter, I’ve been following the rules, I’m wearing these ridiculous boots you picked out… answer me.” 

Another side glance. 

“Please,” Cassandra’s lip pulls back in a half-smile that turns into more of a snarl. Good enough. 

Hannibal purses his lips, “The other night with Dolores was the only time with that specific psychedelic blend, but I’ve seen fit to use sedatives on a few separate occasions,” he looks over to her, silently stunned by his own confession. No matter, nothing she can do about it now. 

Cassandra rubs the bridge of her nose and takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. 

“You’ve ‘seen fit?’ I can’t believe- I just- Fine, in all your grand scheming and conniving, did it ever occur to you to simply… ask?” She waves a hand in exasperation. 

“Are you certain this is how you want to start the day, my dear? If you stop now, we could still have a pleasant time.” 

She falters for only a second, “Well?” 

Hannibal sighs and resigns himself to another day of Cassandra’s snappy outbursts. They’re nothing but the product of her ongoing identity crisis, but hell if it didn’t make him want for an easier project, like Will. 

“Of course, I considered asking, but I was hopeful you would come to me of your own accord. I wasn’t counting on the firm grasp of your superiors- or your predilection to obey them- but I understand now,” Hannibal exits the freeway and turns down the music. 

Cassandra hums and scans the storefronts they pass, finally learning of their destination: Stamford, Connecticut. 

“Tell me this, Cassandra, would you have confessed everything, if I asked plainly?” 

She hesitates to answer, weighing her own truths, “Yes, I think so… I…” Cassandra stops shifts in the seat uneasily. “I guess now we’ll never know.” 

Hannibal passes the keys to the valet while another opens Cassandra’s door for her. The heeled boots serve their purpose, hobbling Cassandra to a careful walk as they pick around leftover snow and ice missed by road salt. Occasionally, the wind picks up to warn of the coming storm and Cassandra finds herself forced to lean on Hannibal when she loses her balance. Hannibal shifts the umbrella he brought as a precaution to his other arm, so he can hook Cassandra’s arm in his. He frowns when he picks up the scent of a shampoo she brought from home, and not what he provided in the guest room. The image of Cassandra furiously scrubbing away Dolores’ viscera in the basement shower comes to mind, as it does frequently. She’ll go home after this weekend and scrub him away in the same fashion, if he can’t make a lasting impression. 

This stuffy, posh side of town boasts many overpriced specialty stores and gift shops, not as many as Baltimore, but enough for Hannibal to exercise his particular brand of taste. Generous Christmas decorations of velvet bows and twinkling lights adorn trees and lampposts. Hannibal catches Cassandra’s wide, excited eyes taking in the window displays. 

“When was the last time you traveled away from Baltimore?” 

Cassandra slows to get a better look at an ugly peacoat in a window painted with snow flocking. Hannibal frowns, he could see from the outside the fabric contained more acrylic than wool, the buttons plastic painted gold. He could find her something more suitable. 

“Oh, it’s been ages. I traveled out of town once since I came home from New York, but that was to pick up barn owl specimens that were too risky to ship.” 

“Paolo’s rules are incredibly restrictive, why do you allow it?” 

“I don’t ‘allow’, I ‘tolerate,’ like I tolerate this.” She stops them at the window of an old-fashioned candy store, and they watch the confectioner stretch molten sugar over hooks. Hannibal smells the peppermint oil even from outside. Candy making never appealed to Hannibal simply for the overwhelming sweetness and sticky cleanup. But as the lump of melted sugar aerates into a glossy, shimmering white, Hannibal finds parallels to his endeavors with Cassandra. 

The raw sugar undergoes many changes and much stress to become a fully realized treat. Until Cassandra stops clinging to the safety of Paolo’s rules and his convenient, endless source of flesh, she’ll never grow. 

“Would you like something? The truffles here are… acceptable. When the confectioner manages to temper the chocolate correctly.” 

“I’d love to buy myself a piece of candy, but you took my wallet, remember? So, I think I’m out of luck,” Cassandra tries to turn on her heel and keep going, but Hannibal holds her fast and walks them into the store, barely keeping from rolling his eyes. 

“I can’t imagine the internal torment you must be feeling, tolerating this,” Hannibal remarks as they leave the shop a few minutes later with hot chocolate and bags of fresh candies. 

Cassandra grunts, “You know, Paolo, crude bastard he may be, treats everyone the same. He’s awful to everyone, but for the most part,” Cassandra pauses to take a sip, “he doesn’t care about me or meddle in my life, and he stays out of the way of my work.” 

Hannibal doesn’t reply, unappreciative of what Cassandra implies. 

“He can be a hassle sometimes, especially when I don’t host or coddle him the way my grandmother did, but we have an agreement. He has no hidden ulterior motives or sinister plans for my future he won’t share.” 

“Fine, Cassandra.” 

“He’s never fed me human flesh.” 

“Cassandra.” 

“Let’s see… ah, he’s never tried to manipulate me into sleeping with him so he could go through my underwear drawer while I slept in his house.” 

Hannibal wheels around on Cassandra, squeezing her hand until she makes a pathetic noise and tries to pull free. He holds a heartbeat longer and releases. Cassandra glares at Hannibal, bitterly flexing her hand, probably weighing options of dumping her hot chocolate over his camel coat or his head. Hannibal raises his eyebrow, daring her to make another move. 

She looks away. 

Anyone that cared to stop and observe the incident has already continued on their way. Cassandra turns her eyes back, her expression filled a strange expectation, but Hannibal can’t place what she might want now. After her constant indignation and antagonistic comments, she’s fortunate to have all her fingers. He hooks their arms together and walks Cassandra to the next stop, silently wishing he left her tied to a dining chair. At least then she’d be happy to see him when he returned, but the whole purpose of bringing Cassandra with him is to be seen. 

Cassandra pouts through the rest of the stops, rubbing her hand when she thinks Hannibal isn’t looking, staring daggers into him when she knows he is. Hannibal makes a note to stop hurting Cassandra’s hands; a crippled artist is of little use. 

Once, Hannibal played an out of tune piano. Once. Hearing the dull, tinny notes coming from the belly of the instrument still sets his teeth on edge when he remembers. Notes and keys have names for a reason. C note is a C note, A-flat an A-flat, and so on, so one may play the same song across any number of instruments and elicit more or less the same effect. Dealing with Cassandra is to invite a jarring mess of noise where you expect melody. 

Hannibal knows to expect a certain amount of compliance thanks to the information he holds over her, but the whining and sharpness grinds in his ears like the untuned piano. The least Cassandra can do is accept her defeat, her new destiny with poise. After all, he could give Cassandra an amazing new standard of life, take her to the depths of understanding and highs of pleasure Hannibal offers to very, very few people. But Cassandra keeps dodging, fighting, and it’s all wrong. 

None of this has gone to plan, so what does he keeps missing, and why does he keep trying? 

“A pickup for Mr. Closter,” Hannibal smiles at the shop employee. She graciously accepts his fake ID, confirms his fake address, and disappears into a back room. This person met expectations, acted with courtesy. She played nicely, if plainly. 

Cassandra hums when the employee is out of earshot, “How many of those do you have?” 

Hannibal glances at Cassandra, considering whether or not to answer her first words to him in over an hour, “Four.” 

“You need a fake ID to buy pocket squares?” 

“And ties, yes, but it’s about setting geographical boundaries. Once you’re used to it, you’ll find it makes certain dealings much easier.” 

Cassandra accepts this, examining a display of leather wallets, ignoring Hannibal again. 

“I take it that doesn’t bother you, or have you run out of venom for the day?” 

Her eyes flash and darken, “It’s very low on the list of things about you that bother me.” 

“And what bothers you about you?” 

Cassandra’s mouth screws up in frustration for falling into his trap, and she leaves to wait outside before the employee returns. Thunder rumbles through the sky as Hannibal steps out of the tailor’s and he smiles brightly at Cassandra’s scowl. No matter how irksome, she’s still powerless here, and Cassandra knows it. So, she stays, and she follows. 

Hannibal checks his watch, looks across the street into the only café worth its salt on this side of town. She’s there, as promised, not that she had much choice in the matter. 

After Cassandra, it’s refreshing to deal with someone that knows their place. 

The sky opens, dumping a sludgy, icy rain on the world. Hannibal nods towards the coffee shop, opening the large umbrella and offering Cassandra her spot next to him. 

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and steps from under the tailor’s awning into the sleet, shoulders hunched against the downpour. Hannibal clenches his jaw and follows after her. Her boots are well oiled, the wool coat warm, but Hannibal has to concentrate on silencing the rage that climbs higher in his chest every time she acts out. 

Hannibal stops suddenly, in the middle of the street, registering a feeling he’s missed for a long, long time. 

Inspiration. 

#### XXIII

This is not normal. 

This is not right. 

This is not ok. 

I remind myself over and over, refusing to settle into the normalcy of this activity. A similar chant used to get me through a different nightmare, but it’s since gone quiet. I find nightmares become dreams once you stop running. 

Few people ventured out today. The occasional grinding of the espresso machine carries over the soft jazz and tapping on keyboards, all underlined by the downpour outside. College students work on assignments, a mother checks her phone while her toddler gets more cupcake icing on his face than in his mouth. A woman with a violent shock of curly ginger hair and a red sweater looks up from her laptop and studies me a beat longer than I’d like. I attempt a half smile and fiddle with the fur lining of my Hannibal-approved gloves. When Hannibal crosses between the two of us, she’s returned to her laptop. 

“Two sugars,” Hannibal says, pressing a saucer and cappuccino into my hands. “We’ll need to get you warmed up after that little stunt.” 

Hannibal settles in next to me with an infuriating ease, more comfortable with my situation than I, as always. My hand still aches from when Hannibal squeezed it. I knew my smart mouth would hurt sooner or later. I tell myself Hannibal likes me too much to kill me, no matter how deep I get under his skin. 

As much as my combative temperament annoys him, he gets a perverse enjoyment out of watching me fight the (he thinks) inevitable. Hannibal may be right about certain things, but he’s also a lying asshole. The lying bothers me more than the murder and cannibalism, which I find concerning. A lot bothers me about me, to answer Hannibal’s question from tailor’s, and the same time, it doesn’t bother me… which really fucking bothers me. 

There’s always been this line in the sand, the line I wouldn’t cross. They were always dead already. 

“Cassandra.” 

“Hmm?” I look up. He’s been talking to me and I missed it. 

“Tell me about the specimens you’re using in my piece. The human ones.” 

I glance around the coffee shop; he wants to talk about this here, now? 

Hannibal makes an annoyed face at my hesitation, “Last month, I killed a first-chair violinist, so the second-chair could take his rightful place in the first position. I kept the bones for broth and made a spicy little Menudo out of the stomach and other sweetbreads.” 

My jaw drops and I scan the café for anyone that heard, my heartrate rising: nothing. I’d put my hand on Hannibal’s arm, reflexively trying to quiet him, and he takes the opportunity to grasp my hand again. He holds me gently this time, rubbing a thumb over my knuckles as my hand throbs from his earlier treatment. 

Hannibal spoke in a voice barely below speaking volume and no one in the shop even looked up. 

“Do you think ranchers censor their speech around cattle?” 

I swallow uneasily and settle back into the loveseat. Hannibal sits back with me, still holding my hand tight enough I don’t bother pulling away. I’ve exhausted any patience he has for the time being. 

“How many different humans have you woven into my sculpture, Cassandra?” 

I shrug, unwilling to fight this battle, “Seven, no… eight. I pulled the arms off of a body day before last. They need to be prepped, is all.” 

Again, no one in the café bats an eye. I notice a camera on the table next to the redhead’s laptop that wasn’t there earlier, the mother cleaned her child’s face of icing, and one of the students gets up to use the restroom. Life goes on. I frown, trying to reconcile this new information with a life of entirely different understanding. 

“You must stop giving them the credit you do; there’s not a body here that perceives the world beyond what they make up about it in the space between their ears.” Hannibal swings an arm up and around my shoulders and leans down to my ear, “I killed a neighbor once, for poisoning the family of raccoons that ate from the garbage bins. I liked them, they weren’t hurting anyone… and she killed them, unaware she was the vermin I allowed to exist. I ate her heart with a simple green bean almandine.” 

I blink and shift uncomfortably in the heat of Hannibal’s embrace and his breath close to my ear. He wants something, waiting expectantly and twirling a strand of my hair, probably making some mental note to have someone take care of my split ends. 

“One time, I had a surplus of teeth, hundreds of teeth, because the enamel is too much for the snails and they don’t chip well into the meal. We typically dissolved them, but our phosphoric acid guy was, well he was dead, I’m not sure why,” I pause to scan the café again. Nothing. 

“Anyway, I glued the teeth to a computer keyboard, on the keys, as a joke. Nana hated it but, I thought it was funny.” 

Hannibal chuckles and withdraws his arm, satisfied with my offering of confession, “That is funny. I’d like to see it.” 

“It’s in a box, somewhere. I can find it.” 

I never told anyone about that project, knowing it wouldn’t fly with the clientele I keep for being more crass than clever. My thumb traces the edge of the coffee cup, and I wonder how much Hannibal has locked up inside. Definitely more than me, given his age and extensive activity overseas and here in the Northeast. This kind of life gets so solitary, you almost can’t blame him for wanting someone to talk to plainly. I catch flashes of excitement off him, like he’s just happy for a similar company, even if I’m here unwillingly. 

I stretch my hand to ease the soreness and push the thoughts from my mind. I refuse to pity Hannibal. He’s lied, manipulated, and hurt me to get me to this point, without apology or hesitation. Hannibal deserves nothing from me, even though he demands everything. 

“And the nonhuman?” Hannibal adjusts his coat and crosses one leg over the other. He’s wearing the red sweater he loaned me forever ago. If I followed my intuition and stayed away, I might still have my old life. A quiet voice in my head tells me I didn’t want it anyway. 

“I was considering usual suspects like foxes or owls, but those cliché. More recently, I think a bowerbird, given how… enthusiastically you decorate your nests.” 

Hannibal takes an experimental sip of his coffee and makes a face, setting it down on the low table. “I recall you were very fond of my nest a few days ago, and you recently started refeathering your own nest, did you not? What exactly are you trying to attract?” 

“Nothing that I can think of, Dr. Lecter,” I lean my head back in the seat, staring up at the ceiling for an answer that isn’t there. He’s probably going to bring up that night forever. Would the barista believe me if I told him? I could use their phone, or steal a phone, but I realize I never bothered memorizing Paolo’s number when it changed last, and the plan dies. 

“You attracted me, though.” 

“I didn’t account for whatever you are.” 

He smiles, “No one ever does.” 

Hannibal rifles through the bags we’ve collected running around town. Truffle infused olive oil, shoehorns made special for specific shoes, custom mixed colognes, a $50 hand soap (really?), oil for the wood cutting boards, this season’s selection of pocket squares, all for Mr. Closter. 

“Ah, here we are,” Hannibal removes an indigo tartan cashmere scarf from its paper wrapping, looping it over and around my head. “I was going to give it to you later, but you seem cold after your dance in the rain.” 

It’s soft and warm, but far from comforting. The scarf is a reward for good behavior, a bargain for my compliance as I play along with Hannibal’s game of public confession. I give Hannibal a nod of appreciation, anyway, unwilling to give up the warmth or deal with the headache of further upsetting him. He waits for me to reciprocate the gift of the scarf. 

“I want the house to feel like mine. A sanctuary from the mess of… other people. And the light from the front windows is prime plant real estate,” I say and take my own sip of coffee. It’s bad, two sugars doing little to cover the oily bitterness. I set my cup next to his, smacking my lips to dislodge the taste. 

“The coffee here is inexcusable, I know,” Hannibal says. “But their chef patisserie is French, and she is very, very talented.” 

As if on cue, a waitress sets two golden and flakey croissants on plates next to our discarded coffees. Hannibal wasn’t lying; they look perfect. Looking up from the pastries, I catch the redhead looking at Hannibal. Her eyes flash to me briefly and back down. I can’t place her expression 

“Do you really feel safer in your home? Even with what you know is there?” 

Does he mean me or the lab? 

“Come on, Dr. Lecter, the beetles don’t bite if they’re full,” I deflect, but he raises an eyebrow and waits. 

I sigh, “It’s familiar and secluded, which is as much as I can hope for. I was tired of the old couch and yellowing wallpaper. How I thought I could redecorate without dissection is beyond me,” I cross my arms and watch the mother button her child’s coat and force a hat onto his little head. 

“Why did you really bring me here?” 

“Can’t we simply appreciate a nice moment out of the cold rain?” 

I look at him incredulously. 

“It’s an assessment of sorts- an exercise in looking.” The croissant makes a crisp noise as Hannibal bites in. “That woman over there, with the child- how long do you think it would take your beetles to pick her clean?” 

48 days. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

My jaw clenches, “50 days, give or take. Hard to tell with all the layers, but she’s small… It also depends on where my colonies are in their reproduction cycles.” 

Hannibal pats my knee in encouragement, like I’m a performing dog. I could probably “accidentally” spill my coffee on his pants in a very believable fashion, but he would find a way for me to “accidentally” lose a leg. 

“What about the larger fellow there?” Hannibal indicates one of the students, probably cramming on a project due after the Thanksgiving break. 

“Closer to 60, but he’s a smoker, so my beetles may not take him without removing certain parts.” 

Hannibal hums, “How do you know he smokes?” 

I don’t know why, I just know. 

“He had a pack of cigarettes on the table earlier.” 

“He certainly did not. You promised you wouldn’t lie, so how do you know?” 

Right, because he’s upheld his side of the bargain. I still can’t figure out Hannibal’s reasons for dragging me here. We haven’t gone anywhere for rope, duct tape, tarps, gloves, or whatever I expect Hannibal keeps in his murder kit next to the clear raincoat. No mention of what/who we’re having for dinner. I’ve been a pain in the ass all day and he wouldn’t tolerate that or this awful coffee if it wasn’t for a specific purpose. 

“His fingers are stained, and I’ve smelled cigarette smoke a couple of times since we’ve been here. I highly doubt either of those two are smokers,” I nod to the mother and the red-haired woman. “So I have to assume it’s him.” 

“Very good,” Hannibal pats my leg again, but he looks at me with an inscrutable mix of disappointment and exasperation, like I should be better. 

The rain stops, finally, and Hannibal wants to get to the car before it starts up again. I feel eyes on my back as we walk out, and I look to see the ginger woman watching us leave with an angry pittance, if there were such a thing. 

Hannibal leaves me alone for most of the ride back, and I nearly fall asleep again, lulled by the string quartet coming from the speakers, but something nags the back of my mind. 

“Who was that woman, at the coffee shop?” 

Hannibal turns down the music, “Pardon?” 

“The one with red hair- she acted like she knew us, or you, rather,” I turn my head in Hannibal’s direction, even though I can’t see him. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but your nerves must be getting to you, finally. Would you like a valium?” 

“No, I don’t want a valium,” I sneer back. “I want to know who that woman is, she kept looking at us.” 

I hear Hannibal sigh, “She probably liked your coat, Cassandra, or perhaps she found us attractive.” Hannibal uses the same voice he used when I woke up from my concussion on his couch, or I heard this voice in a dream I can’t remember. Calm, strong, reassuring. Safe to say, this is bullshit. 

“And here I thought you were a man of your word,” I say dismissively. 

The leather on the steering wheel creaks as Hannibal clenches his fists, but his voice stays even, “Reconsider, perhaps half a valium, or a Xanax. You’ve more than exhausted my patience and hospitality for today, and I will not abide false accusations…” 

“For fucks sake, Hannibal,” I stomp my feet on the floorboards. “I’ve spent my entire life on the lookout for people that look at me weird, or act strangely around me, to keep you-know-what safe, so I KNOW that woman knew something.” 

It’s quiet as Hannibal considers his next options, whether to keep lying or come clean. 

“She was an old... friend of sorts. Our relationship didn’t end the way she wanted it to, and I wanted to avoid an awkward conversation, so I ignored her, for your sake. I assume she looked at you because she thought you were my new _amante_.” 

I slouch back into the seat, not satisfied with the answer, but glad to have forced some semblance of truth out of him. His words held too much hesitation for me to believe he ever regarded her with any fondness. Every time Hannibal lies, I want to remind him that he wouldn’t keep me around if I were as stupid as he likes to treat me. 

“Very perceptive of you, though. I didn’t notice you noticing.” 

“Yes, or maybe you’re not as subtle as you think you are.” 

That last comment felt like a bad idea as I said it, and it was. The space inside the car warps dramatically. I dropped the final straw, and the enraged silence next to me forces something deep inside to curl up on itself and shiver, despite the heated leather seat under me. 

In my bones, I know I fucked up. 

I really fucked up. My mind races as Hannibal turns the music up without a word, and I’m tempted to grab for the wheel. A wreck could kill us both, but I’d be doing the world a favor. 

The car stops and Hannibal is out of his seat before I can get the blindfold off. I have nowhere to run, and Hannibal demonstrates this in the slow, deliberate steps he takes to my side of the car. The house on the cliff waits ahead, as dark and cold as the sea below. 

In a last-ditch effort, I push the car lock down, and Hannibal inclines his head, making a show of using his thumbprint to unlock my door. He really does think of everything. 

“Step out, please.” 

I don’t move, still trying to figure a way out of this. Hannibal looks normal, but feels different, dangerous, more so than any time before I sensed something was off. 

“Cassandra, I promise you won’t enjoy it if I have to force you, so come with me. Now.” 

Shaky fingers fumble with the seat belt, and Hannibal pulls me out of the car, gripping my wrist in a vice. 

We walk to the house in a stony silence, the snow crunching beneath our feet. Hannibal says nothing, his face a calm mask, and my panic rises ever higher. I can’t keep my breathing normal. Hannibal reaches into his coat pocket for the house keys. 

_Now._

My free hand slams into Hannibal’s ribs, forcing a sound of surprise, and the heel of my boot on his foot loosens his grip enough I can pull free. Break for the trees. I have no idea where I am, or how far the nearest help could be. It doesn’t matter. Run. 

I quickly learn why Hannibal insisted on these heels as he overtakes me, dragging us both down into the snow. After a tumble, Hannibal rears up, his knees pressing my arms into the cold ground. Hannibal takes a second to brush the snow off his coat and fix his hair, his breath unaffected while I lay under wincing and panting. 

“Well played, I’ll give you that.” 

“Fuck you,” I kick my legs uselessly, gasping under his weight. “Come on, just do it here, and- and make sure Will keeps Apollo.” 

Hannibal gives me a look that feels like the equivalent of getting punched in the amygdala and the breath catches in my throat. I can’t even cry, as every idea I had about what Hannibal is gets dashed to nothing, because the reality is so much worse than I could put into rational thought. 

Something always told me I wouldn’t die peacefully, but I never imagined this. 

“As if I would let you off so easily.” 

I’m flipped over, my face cold in the snow, and I hear the tinkling of Hannibal’s belt buckle coming undone. The belt encircles my arms, pulling them up and back till I hiss through my teeth. Hannibal hooks his arm under my elbows, hauling me panting and gasping out of the snow and back to the house. Is this what the others felt like, his victims and mine? 

My breathing won’t cooperate enough with me to get a scream out. We go through the front door, past all the gleaming marble and metal of the kitchen, into the pantry. Hannibal presses on an invisible seam and a door swings open, revealing stairs descending deep into the ground. The air rushes up and hits me in the face, exactly like my trap basement at home. It smells the same, too. 

Survival instincts kick back in and I lunge for the pantry door. Hannibal makes a frustrated noise and propels me to the top of the stairs. 

“No! No! I’m sorry, okay, Hannibal. I get it. I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. He gets me down three steps and a scream finally claws its way out of my throat. 

“You win, you win, you’re right, about everything! I’ll do it- whatever you want.” 

I push off the wall with my feet, nearly causing Hannibal to lose balance but he corrects himself. 

“Far too little, far too late, Cassandra. You’ve practically begged for this outcome, and now you want to run? That’s hardly sporting of you,” Hannibal hisses in my ear. 

“No, no, I-I’ll be good, I’m sorry, really, just don’t,” I lose the rest of my sentence in a weak sob as Hannibal half carries, half drags me to the bottom of the stairs. 

Lights flicker on and I gasp at the expanse of Hannibal’s playground. Hannibal’s pride gives me a heartbeat to absorb the space. It must be three times the size of mine, with multiple sinks, larger saws, and more doors leading off the main space, hiding who knows what horrors. 

Hannibal opens one of those doors and I wait while he unties my arms and removes my coat. Think of something, there has to be something. Please think of something. 

He pushes me, hard, the ground rushing up and I barely get my sore arms under me in time to break the fall. I hear the door close behind me. Get up. Now. Scanning the room for anything, anything to use, I see few cameras watching from the corners, a tarp on the floor. Hooks swing gently from ceiling and a thermometer by the door reads 46 degrees Fahrenheit. 

A shuddering, mechanical groan from somewhere outside, and freezing air rushes in from the vent above. I struggle to get my breathing under control. How pathetic to pass out now, after everything I’ve been through. I jump when the door slams open, and Hannibal stands in the doorway, eyes wild and glinting maroon in the light. 

Hannibal grips the arm of another person, and I’m too terrified to question why. He’s sickly pale underneath all the dirt, naked from the waist up, and sobbing. His wide eyes search the room frantically, till they find me, and he makes a strangled noise. 

“Hannibal! Stop, please, for one second, anything. We- we can figure it out.” 

“This is your ticket out of here, my dear, and I sure hope you’re happy, forcing me to waste him before he’s ready,” Hannibal snarls at me. If I manage to get out of this alive, I’ll never wonder what lies beyond the veil again. 

Hannibal pushes his captive further into the room, to his knees. My back meets the far wall as I try to get as much space between me and Hannibal as possible. 

Who will take care of my snails? 

Hannibal leans down to wrap his hands around the stranger’s head, and with a great heave, Hannibal breaks his neck. The sudden silence after his crying cut off hangs in the air, but my ears ring with the familiar sound of bones crunching. My own hand clamps over my mouth, to keep either the scream or the vomit inside. 

“Work quickly, now,” Hannibal orders, winks, already beginning to gain back his usual calm exterior. He drops a bag on the floor and slams the door closed. Stepping over the body on the floor, I try the handle. Nothing, as expected. I shiver suddenly, seeing the faint cloud of breath hanging in the air. 

The thermometer by the door reads 39.


	13. Torturing Your Friends is Rude, Didn't You Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of where we left off in C.12. Just read it, I don't want to spoil anything. As always, thank you to my readers for sticking with me and my little project.

#### XXIV

Hannibal swirls his glass of wine and watches Cassandra throw herself at the door to the walk-in freezer. Three cameras feed directly to his tablet and he enjoys a fire while Cassandra tires herself out. The initial shock wore off a few moments after Hannibal slammed the door shut, and the yelling began. She’s muted, currently. 

He presses a button, and a speaker inside the freezer crackles to life, “Cassandra, if you start sweating, hypothermia will set in.” 

Trapping people in an industrial-grade walk-in freezer with the only way out being performing an unthinkable task always works. Hannibal knows this from past experience, but it’s the nuclear option he hoped to avoid in Cassandra’s case. Hannibal gives the merlot an experimental sniff. He can’t win them all, and at least he gets a show. Had he known Cassandra would make it this difficult, Hannibal would have bypassed all the other mess and used his trusted brainwashing methods. Hannibal so hoped she would be different, and she is, in the wrong way. 

People tend to use the first few minutes up by crying or begging, but Cassandra puts everything she has into opening the door. All her weight goes into the prying the handle, but it holds fast, and she gives up finally, dropping to the floor. Her trembling hands go under her arms and she shivers. Hannibal took her coat before pushing her into the walk-in, leaving only her lighter layers and the blue scarf. With the rate the temperature keeps dropping, she might have 45 minutes to act. Perhaps less. 

Hannibal’s other captive (one of many) stares into nothing, his eyes already fogging over in the freezing temperatures. Cassandra looks at him, into the camera, and back. She already knows what must be done, the real question if she will go through with it. 

Cassandra rifles through the leather bag on the floor, pulling out large hunting and skinning knives, scalpels, and neatly labeled containers. She swears again, throwing one of the scalpels against the wall, snapping the feather-thin blade and sending it skittering somewhere across the floor. The temperature drops to the 20’s and Cassandra hunches her shoulders against the cold. 

“I wouldn’t do that again- you only have the two left, now.” 

“You don’t need to do this, Hannibal. Can’t we discuss this?” 

“A few minutes ago, you said you would do, and I quote, ‘whatever I want.’ I want the liver, Cassandra. ‘Be good,’ now.” 

Her lip curls and Cassandra gingerly picks up one of the remaining scalpels, moving to kneel by the body. Kevin. Or Thomas. Perhaps Jerry? He worked at the sporting goods store Hannibal (Mr. Wyman) purchases fishing lines and higher quality ropes. His name was probably Thomas. 

“Your hands won’t be able to hold those blades soon, and you’ll go into shock.” 

Cassandra grips the scalpel tighter and she tentatively prods the body in front of her. His foot twitches and she starts. Never before has Cassandra dealt with a body been so fresh that it still twitches, but Hannibal ensured he would be more than fresh. 

“Hannibal, he has a pulse still,” Cassandra withdraws her hand from Thomas’ neck. 

“Yes, and he will likely survive in that climate longer than you, since he’s not wasting energy deluding himself with trivialities of morality. We are past that now. He knows what he is, Cassandra. Finish it, and you get to leave. I have a lovely fire up here, you could join me.” 

“You can’t do this to me,” Cassandra drops the scalpel on the floor. “I’m not ready!” 

“And what would make you ready, Cassandra? You don’t have much time.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, her breathing normal even as her teeth chatter. No tears or broken voices. Hannibal contemplates the cruel irony of admiring her resolve even as he delights in his attempts to break it. Cassandra’s begging for her life on the stairs disappointed Hannibal, but he has that affect on people. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” Cassandra looks into the camera with more persistence in her eyes than pleading. Hannibal blinks, unable to recall another time she asked for his reasonings. She’s still sidestepping and fighting him in these odds. He’s won. She needs to get on with it. 

“I urge you to reconsider your priorities.” 

Cassandra tries to rub some warmth in her arms as the temperature creeps to 24. “Tell me. Tell me why… and I’ll do it.” 

“You are not in a position to bargain, Cassandra.” 

“Please, Hannibal, give me this one thing. I know you don’t want me to die; you’ve invested so much time, just tell me.” 

She’s stalling still. Hannibal sighs inwardly, watching the clock on the wall and worrying the wine cork with his fingernail. If she dies, what will he tell Will about the dog? Or Joan? Would he get his deposit for the sculpture back? 

“Hannibal! If I die here, I need to know why. You owe me that much after all of this.” 

Hannibal scowls, if Cassandra dies in the freezer, it’s for her insolence and nothing else. She chose this, instead of yielding to him. A tiny voice nags… would Cassandra’s death be a consequence of Hannibal’s failure to break her? Hannibal debates his options and their meaning a moment longer. None of the others ever complained this much. 

“I saw potential.” 

Cassandra’s brow furrows, but she waits and listens, breath fogging the air. Hannibal looks at the clock and back to Cassandra on his screen. She holds herself with an intense desperation that doesn’t show on her face, like an animal pulling on a chain that isn’t there. 

“I met your art before I met you, Cassandra, and I was stunned by the beauty you managed to intertwine with the brutality. The worship and disregard for them- you used them so flagrantly for your own whims, but your whims were to dress them in flowers and gold, like kings or pharaohs. I didn’t understand why until you told me about their stories, or lack thereof. I see the ways you pushed them in ways you could not push yourself.” 

Hannibal lets a few seconds pass, watching Cassandra for a reaction she doesn’t offer. 

“I know you think there are versions of you, I’ve seen the Other you bargain with to do your business, but the two sides of a coin are a still a coin. You don’t get to strangle and hide the very thing that tethers you to the Earth, Cassandra. I find your desperate attachment to your blindness hypocritical on a level that is, frankly, on par with the most devout of Christians. It couldn’t go on.” 

Cassandra looks at Thomas’ body steaming in the cold and feels at his wrist for a pulse. It’s there, but faint. Somewhere in the past minute, the seriousness of her predicament caught up and Cassandra runs a hand over her face and through her hair. She bows her head. 

“I only wanted to show you, but you didn’t want to look, and here you are.” 

The thermometer reads 21. Every degree that drops shortens her time exponentially. Cassandra tightens the scarf around her neck and chest further, steeling her nerves. She takes the scalpel with a bitter determination. Hannibal leans in closer. It’s happening. 

“Hannibal.” 

“Yes?” 

“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Well, that hardly seems fair. 

Cassandra’s blade slides into the space were Thomas’ jaw and ear meet, finding both the internal and external carotids. Experience tells her how much deeper and higher these veins rest than most people think. An arterial spray arcs across the wall and Thomas’ fingers twitch slightly. She chose a merciful end for the months of torture Thomas endured, and he’ll finish dying quickly, given the rate his blood rushes to fill the space between his body and the wall. Cassandra cut into the side facing away from her, but the blood still creeps around to where she kneels, soaking the knees of her pants and further abusing the Louboutin’s. Thomas’ blood shines obscenely in the silver and white of the freezer. Cassandra doesn’t even apologize to him. 

Finally. Hannibal rarely gets to experience this moment, their first kills, so closely. 

She wastes no time, slicing through skin, abdominal walls, connective fascia with masterful ease, nearly as fast as Hannibal. How Cassandra thought she was made for anything else was beyond him. A pause, Cassandra waits with her hands over the opening in Thomas’ belly, poised to dive into the viscera and pluck out Hannibal’s pound of flesh. A final, shuddering breath and Cassandra makes a noise that exists in the desperate place between a sigh and a sob, sinking her hands into the bloody warmth. Hannibal leans in, closer to the screen, and it happens. 

Cassandra’s angle over the body obscures her face, but her body language is enough. He got to see it in Cassandra’s underground workshop. A regular person couldn’t detect it, but her breathing deepens, her shoulders relax. Her hands become deft and graceful, gliding through Thomas’ entrails like a pianist’s hands over keys. Hannibal knows that reverie like an old friend. Cassandra could do this blind. 

Hannibal releases a breath and leans back in his chair. Cassandra saved herself, and for that Hannibal is pleased. Explaining her sudden disappearance could have been tedious. The idea occurs that Hannibal locked Cassandra in the freezer because he’s uncertain he could kill her with his own hands. But he doesn’t entertain the notion for longer than the second it passes through his mind. 

Thomas’ small intestine coils onto the floor. Hannibal didn’t ask for it by way of labeled stainless steel bowl and Cassandra needs access to the kidneys. Cassandra works methodically, her blade freeing the offal with practiced casualty, flesh splitting as if it knows what she wants. 

Cassandra recoils from the body suddenly, and dives back in to finish separating the last of the connective tissues to remove Thomas’ liver. She holds the pale, engorged organ away from herself, like a forgotten container of leftovers that moldered in the refrigerator. It must be three times the size of a standard human liver, but Hannibal was aiming for five before he scrapped the body for this demonstration. 

“W-what were you doing to him?” Cassandra asks, her voice finally trembling. The stranger’s atrophied limbs look strange next to his recently plump, distended belly. 

“The foie gras from the other night had to come from somewhere and I find animal abuse distasteful. Ducks have never done anything to deserve that treatment and this is a kinder alternative.” 

Cassandra’s body heaves with a gag and Hannibal rolls his eyes, her hypocrisy almost too much to bear. No persimmon tasted the same as the ones from Cassandra’s trees. The herbs of her garden grow strong enough to imbue her with scents of the earth, all thanks to the potency of her human-based plant foods. Beetles, snails, and plants distill the souls she claims, but she consumes her victims all the same. Using their bones in her sculptures eclipses and transcends whatever nothingness the bones walked around in life doing beforehand. Monuments to the madness distilled through the generations of her family. 

“Is this a game to you? All of this?” 

Hannibal blinks, noticing the first inflections of genuine fear in her voice since he dragged Cassandra down the stairs. 

“I do find enjoyment where I can, yes, but don’t act like this is the first of your victims to come to you in poor health.” 

“He’s not my victim,” Cassandra spits into the camera, somehow missing the irony of the statement coming from someone coated in blood to the elbows. 

“Had you behaved, he could still be alive, and wasted another month of oxygen before I needed him.” 

Cassandra shouts in frustration and throws the spleen at the camera that gives Hannibal the best view, coating the lens in blood. She’s going to be fine. Hannibal hears Cassandra fight her way to the heart more than he sees it. Sawing through the sternum is a privilege for well-behaved protégés, so Cassandra must break and spread the ribs to access the thoracic cavity. 

It ends all too soon, but Hannibal gives her another seven minutes in the freezer to contemplate her choices. The door opens silently and Hannibal crouches down to Cassandra’s level. Cassandra curled up as tightly as possible, but she still rolled up her sleeves to itch at her forearms as the chill set in. Hannibal gives the excised organs a cursory glance. They weren’t really the point. The thermometer reads 11. 

Hannibal carefully picks Cassandra up from the floor and she clings to the warmth of his chest. 

“You mentioned that I see this as a game, but you’re wrong.” 

Cassandra doesn’t react, shivering violently and breathing deeply of the warm, moist air of the basement workshop. 

“Do you know why?” 

Nothing. 

“The word ‘game’ implies the opportunity for you to walk away the victor. As you can see, it’s not a possibility.” 

Hannibal carries Cassandra out of his hidden workshop and to her room, depositing her on the bench at the foot of the bed and wrapping the duvet around Cassandra’s shaking body. Her fingers fumble to hold the blanket close and Hannibal holds one of her hands in his, causing her to hiss at the sudden change in temperature, but she doesn’t pull away. Cassandra’s fingers my tingle for a while, but Hannibal can assess no permanent damage. He still waited till the very last second. 

Cassandra hasn’t moved when Hannibal leaves and returns with a bowl of warm water and towels. A bath is out of the question, given her early stage hypothermia, but he still needs to clean her up. Cassandra’s usual shower ritual would have to wait. She winces as her hands go into the water and tints it pink with the blood caking her hands. 

“I hope you understand now…” Hannibal begins as he cuts Cassandra’s sweater away with safety scissors. She makes no protest as her bra follows. 

“Tonight, you saw the truth of your place in this world, a place above the rest. You’ll feel resistance, and you’ll need to fight though many deeply held truths. You have years of socialization and training to unravel, but I promise the chains binding you are nothing but boundaries of your own construction. They’re not the real you.” 

Cassandra snorts through her nose but doesn’t open her mouth. 

Hannibal delicately picks the caked blood out from under Cassandra’s fingernails. He considered providing gloves but preferred the incentive of warmth in the sub-freezing temperatures. Cassandra needed to be cornered and pushed to the very edge before she gave in, and Hannibal isn’t so blind he can’t admire tenacity that relented under a force such as he. But Cassandra still needed to want survival in the same way a fox wants to chew its leg out of a snare. 

Her punishment over, Hannibal’s fondness returns even though Cassandra seems hellbent on the silent treatment. Cassandra’s ego took a devastating hit today and Hannibal tolerates the pouting, focusing instead on the progress. 

“There is no way this ends other way than my way, Cassandra. But I will carry you, kicking and screaming, to the finish. When it’s all over, you’ll thank me.” 

Cassandra silently watches Hannibal wipe the blood away from her arms with a blank face. She sniffles and suppresses a cough. The boots and pants come off, and Cassandra curls her legs in and under the blanket once Thomas’ blood is wiped away. 

“What happened to all your fire, or did I already break you so easily?” Hannibal tilts her head back with a hand under her chin to wipe at the stray droplets on her chin. Cassandra lowers her eyes to avoid his gaze and Hannibal tuts. She allows Hannibal to tug one of his pajama shirts over her head and he leaves her in the rapidly fading light, cuddling a hot water bottle. 

“We’ll try again tomorrow. Get some sleep, Cassandra,” Hannibal says quietly over his shoulder. “You did well.” 

#### XXV

_“But I don’t want to go that far away… what’s wrong with UMB?”_

_“Pratt is an excellent school and Mr. Benefold agreed to pay part of your tuition- you’ve won scholarships- why wouldn’t you go?” Nana doesn’t need to look up from her cutting board to look at me while we speak. I’m cutting the stems off pickled grape leaves for dolmas and she preps the stuffing. We make more food than any two people could eat in preparation for Paolo and a handful of bodies coming later this evening._

_“I thought you wanted to keep making art.”_

_“I do, you know I do, but…” I keep my eyes from wandering to Nana’s bedroom door._

_“This will be good for you, I know it. You can’t stay here forever with an old woman like me; you need to find your own people.”_

_I grunt in halfhearted agreement and wash the leaf brine off my hands. Any young artist in the country would kill for a chance to go to Pratt, and probably kill even more for a chance to go to Pratt with the money I’m promised. I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure of how to navigate this discussion further. Nana and her wooden spoon don’t take no for an answer._

_“You shouldn’t be alone... not now. It’s not fair.”_

_Nana gives me a reproachful look over her shoulder, “Life isn’t fair, Cassie, and I’m not alone. I have Eris, and my church friends. You don’t need to worry about me.”_

_“I don’t mean that… I mean…”_

_“I know what you mean, Cassie,” Nana says quietly and puts the knife down. She turns to me, takes my hands in hers. They already tremble noticeably. “You have a real chance to break this cycle, honey.” She’s so tired._

_Nana sighs and looks around conspiringly, worried we could be overheard in our own kitchen. “The golden years of this business are long gone. I thought your mother could get out, get you out, but… well, it’s come to you.”_

_Eris walks into the kitchen and sits by the door to the backyard._

_“As long as you keep up an avenue of disposal, Mr. Benefold will pay your way. I already took care of it. You have a real chance to make more of yourself than I did. You can do anything you want, Cassie, if you try. Promise me you’ll try.”_

_I frown, but I nod. Nana “took care” of my tuition by accepting more debt to pay off in cadaver processing. And ‘disposal’ isn’t enough for me anymore. Nana looks uneasily to her bedroom door and back to me. She won’t say it, but she’s worried. I’ve been found by myself in the basement lab one too many times and I’m bad at hiding the way I perk up when the phone rings with a delivery. The basement feels safe, like it knows something about me I don’t. After years, I still couldn’t understand how she kept downstairs separate from herself and treated it as a second job the same way someone might wait tables on the weekends._

_Nana clears her throat, “You’re going to that school, Cassandra. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject, are we clear?”_

_I give her another sullen nod. Eris huffs from her spot by the door._

_“Good. Now take the dog out, and there’ll be potatoes for peeling when you’re back inside.”_

_Eris trots around the backyard, sniffing for a spot. The black Doberman mix disappears into the shadows around the fence and I let her to her business. Some of the strawberries already hang ripe from their bushes, deep red and fat with juice. They’re red all the way through, not white on the inside like the trash from the supermarket. I look over my shoulder, making sure Nana still has her back turned to the window. Kneeling in the dirt, my fingers sink into the soil, still warm from the summer sun, and I suppress a shiver. Eris walks over to me, and we share half a strawberry._

_I never knew dogs ate strawberries, but I think Eris knows what makes ours so perfect._

My eyes open in the dark and I hold my breath, listening. It’s late. Hannibal’s offerings of various warm drinks sit on the nightstand untouched. I listened to him make dinner, which I refused, and his music finally cut off a few hours later. I heard his shower running. The sounds of Hannibal brushing his teeth feel too banal for someone like him. 

_“If you sell the house, you could be free of it all,” Nana won’t let them put her on machines and I keep having to pick her up from the floor when she falls._

_“The house is the only thing we own in all of this; I can’t give them everything.”_

_“Cassie, Cassie, listen to me, please, if you can’t get out, you will lose everything, you…” She loses her sentence in a cough. Everything is difficult now, from moving, to eating, to speaking. She’s still so tired. “This isn’t what we wanted for you, not anymore.”_

I finally understand what he is, and we are not the same, but in understanding Hannibal I better understand myself. My grandmother gave everything to get me out of this, and I was so close. All she wanted was for me to become someone else, then Hannibal happened, and the rest is history. Wherever she watches from, I hope Nana knows I tried, and I hope she doesn’t blame herself. 

Enduring Hannibal’s gloating in silence took a considerable effort, but he suspects nothing. I can see him now in his silk pajamas and 1,000 thread-count sheets sleeping (if he sleeps) and plotting more bullshit to drag me through. I’ll give Hannibal what he wants. That, and more than he ever thought me capable. The house’s heater groans on and I spring into action. It’s the only cover noise I’ll get besides the wind and I have to move quickly. The metallic clinking on my teeth sounds extra loud in the quiet dark, but I extract the broken scalpel blade from its spot between my cheek and gums without issue. 

Hannibal made good points, and he’s right about many things. I can’t deny the clarity in my mind or the sharpness of my vision, to give credit where it’s due. Hannibal helped me see through the veil, yes, but I have a point to make.


	14. Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People don't like it when you're a dick to them, Hannibal.  
> The semester ended and I wrote for like three days straight. I'm officially at novella length, which is wild, so it means a lot for anyone to read this far. Thanks :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW specific to this chapter: Child abuse/pedo mention. Small mention, no detail.

#### XXVI

_Wake up.  
_

__

_Wake UP.  
_

____

Hannibal bolts upright in bed. He waits, listening, feeling. Something is wrong, but the exact wrongness escapes detection. He smells blood.  


____

Cassandra’s bedroom door opens without unlocking or an alert from the alarm system. Hannibal peers up at the sensor on the door jamb to see tiny magnets stuck to the surface, keeping the alarm from triggering. He curses. _Where did she even get these?  
_

A destroyed eyeshadow palette on the floor answers that question, the magnet closures cut out, Hannibal assumes, with the broken scalpel blade still stuck in the keyhole. Hannibal grins to himself, despite the seriousness of the situation, because it worked. Cassandra snapped. He got her to open up to that dark, secret part of herself she denied for years and _oh fuck the car._  


Hannibal’s house shoes nearly slip on the floor in his rush to check the garage, but the Bentley sits quietly in the dark and he lets the door swing closed. This means Cassandra stayed nearby. Hannibal inhales deeply, tasting the air, and he detects imported Earl Grey under the blood this time.  


He finds the source of the scent in the kitchen. Thomas’ head sits on a cutting board with a stainless-steel skewer stabbing through one cheek and pinning the tongue to the roof of his mouth. Cassandra had the sense not to use one of Hannibal’s good knives, or a wood cutting board that would absorb fluids and make sanitation difficult. She wanted to send a message, but where the hell is she?  


A tin of loose tea leaves sits open on the counter and Hannibal closes it, ignoring the discomfort he feels knowing he slept through Cassandra’s jailbreak, her retrieval of the head, and the making of a cup of tea. Perhaps that extra glass of wine, or is he simply losing his edge?  


…Certainly not that. Could Cassandra be that good? The thought delights as much as it worries because he still needs to find her. Knowing both their phones still rest on his nightstand helps. He can work with this; he’s dealt with worse.  


Hannibal dresses quickly, pulling on his coat as he rushes out of the house, ready to hunt Cassandra for miles into the trees and drag her back at any cost. He stops in his tracks, as he rounds the corner and sees Cassandra sitting on the back of a stone bench overlooking the edge of the cliff. Cassandra turns to look at Hannibal over her shoulder and it hits him like a wall.  


At this point, the wisest action would be to kill her. Hannibal should have killed her weeks ago. Or last night. Or now. But Hannibal’s curiosity keeps outpacing his common sense, and today is no exception. This borders on recklessness. Cassandra turns back to look over the ocean without a word and Hannibal hears the crunch of her biting into an apple. He walks over the rocky earth to stand by the bench, holding out his hand and Cassandra accepts the broken scalpel blade. Cassandra flicks the blade over the edge of the cliff and her eyes flash up to him as she pats the spot on the bench next to her. Hannibal sits.  


“Good morning.”  


“Good morning.”  


“You didn’t tell me you liked Earl Gray.”  


“I don’t, but your coffee maker is out of my depth.”  


One of Hannibal’s wool coats hangs off Cassandra’s shoulders instead of her coat Hannibal threw somewhere over a table in the basement. Hannibal waits and watches the dawn light spread over the ocean while she finds the words.  


“I’m going to talk now, and I need you to listen,” Cassandra says after a time.  


“That depends which Cassandra is speaking. How are you feeling after last night?”  


The protective air Cassandra carried before last night sharpens into a dare, or a promise, but it’s brittle. Exhaustion tinges her face, but her eyes have never looked so clear and certain. Whatever dark thing that swam behind the film breached the surface, and it’s hungry.  


Cassandra takes a deep breath, pushing down annoyance, “I liked you, when I first met you.”  


“I made certain of it, but you were wary of me, as well.”  


“Yes, but I still liked you,” Cassandra smiles ruefully. “You were strange... I didn’t understand why, at the time, but I was drawn to you.”  


Silence, again, save the wind and crashing waves below. Hannibal waits, ignoring the cold.  


“One time, my grandmother caught me in the basement, alone, which wasn’t allowed. I was carving one of the bodies with a razor, peeling away layers of the dermis to pull different values.”  


Hannibal inclines his head, eyes widening slightly and unsure of where Cassandra could be going with this confession. Cassandra thumbs the edge of the teacup, one of Hannibal’s favorites.  


Cassandra swallows hard, “Another time, I got in trouble for weaving ivy vines through holes I cut in their skin… Um, I wasn’t allowed in the basement for months after that, it might have been longer, but Nana needed my help. After a few more incidents like that, we came to an agreement. I would funnel my… attraction to the bodies into the sculptures I made, but use the bones instead of the fresh cadavers, because my grandmother couldn’t handle a crazy, disturbed person on top of everything else.”  


Hannibal puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “I doubt anyone in the world is further from crazy than you, in this moment.” His grip tightens. She still smells like her cheap products from home.  


“My point is, Hannibal,” Cassandra continues, shrugging him off, “I knew it was there. I can barely remember a time it wasn’t. Someone in the family was bound to lose their taste for humanity, sooner or later, and it was me. But I ignored it to protect people.” She relaxes back in her seat. “My grandma didn’t need any more stress than she already dealt with, and she was all I had, by that point. Haven’t you ever needed to protect someone?”  


“Yes.” Mischa. Hannibal still avoids those memories, decades later.  


“So, yes, I pushed it down. I ignored it. I made the sculptures be enough for so long, and then Nana was gone…”  


Cassandra sniffles and takes a second to get her voice back.  


“Suddenly, I was free to do… anything. But I couldn’t. I’d stare at the bodies as they came in and finally give up and process them like normal, so I wouldn’t have to deal with feeling so useless. I’d come out of the basement shaking. The world felt like it was underwater, but I was outside the tank looking in. It was too much, I couldn’t decide on where to go, what to do, who to tell…”  


Hannibal knows where this story ends.  


“Then I met you, and I thought… maybe, maybe this was someone that could help. But we know what you did instead.”  


Hannibal clasps his hands together, recalling a construction of Cassandra worlds away from the one that sits next to him. This one isn’t a construction at all. There’s no guilt (a useless and entirely too base emotion), but he sees now, in the light of a new day, a handful of missteps on his part. He opens his mouth to respond but Cassandra’s glance stops him for the time being.  


“I’m tired, Hannibal. I’m keep giving you chances to be better, and you won’t, and I…” Cassandra closes her eyes and sighs, “After all of your eavesdropping and recon, seeing everything I’m forced and coerced into, all the time, did you not think to give me a choice in the matter?”  


Hannibal looks at her, taken aback by her admittance of knowing. Cassandra returns the gaze, showing the minute broken capillaries around her eyes that only come from vomiting or intense crying. He should end this now. It’ll be easy.  


“You didn’t think I’d choose you.”  


Hannibal blinks, unwilling to answer a question he never considered.  


“Right,” Cassandra says softly. She stands, dusting off the back of Hannibal’s coat and hugging her arms close. Something in the way Cassandra holds herself feels different. She’s not as afraid of him as she was yesterday.  


“Why didn’t you run?”  


“You can’t trick a Bentley with magnets.”  


Hannibal keeps his expression neutral, knowing his keys sit in the bowl by the front door. Cassandra still thinks she has nowhere to go, or she still doesn’t want to leave. Cassandra knew, she fought him at every step, and she stayed anyway.  


Cassandra clears her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t know what you lack, Hannibal, in your life, that you had to do this to me, but I can’t give it to you.”  


Hannibal frowns, “I want for nothing, Cassandra. You, however, lack conviction.”  


She scoffs, rolling her eyes, and Hannibal suppresses the urge to pluck one out. He’d miss their depth and rage.  


“I’m serious, Cassandra, you have no idea what you could do, we could do…”  


Cassandra laughs at that, sharp and bitter, “’Do?!’ You’ve never given me a chance to ‘do’ anything, how would it change? You ambushed me the first time I went to your house- all I’ve been able to ‘do’ is react and survive you.”  


“And you’re marvelous at it, aren’t you?”  


“You underestimated me.” Cassandra stomps her foot. “I work for a major crime family- did you think I was stupid?!”  


“Perhaps I was unfair with you. I… miscalculated your understanding of what you could be…”  


Cassandra’s eyebrow twitches at that, and she takes another bite of her apple, chewing slowly.  


“…But not your acceptance. I pushed you for your own good. The only reason you’re still alive is because I care for you and your future.”  


She laughs again, nearly choking. “I actually grew up with people that care about me, Hannibal, and you aren’t it.” Cassandra waves a dismissive hand, “You cared about what I could be for you, what you could take, what I could ‘do’. But you never cared about me. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”  


“If you took issue with my methods, why did you keep fighting? Or coming back? Why didn’t you tell Paolo? What did you have to gain?” Hannibal’s brow knits close, his anger rising again despite decades of practice in managing his emotions.  


Cassandra sniffs and runs a hand through her hair. The wind keeps whipping it around her face in wild, dark strands as the sun rises higher, revealing more of the weariness in her eyes. She shouldn’t be out here, not after the debacle in the freezer.  


“I don’t need to give you the ‘I’ve never had a real friend’ sob story, but I kept hoping if I made it to the end, if I could prove myself, that… I don’t know.” She shrugs helplessly. “I thought it might be worth it. But it’s not. You’re not worth it. I never chose you, Hannibal, because you wouldn’t give me the space to try. I can’t help if you fall apart every time you don’t get your way.”  


Hannibal clenches his jaw, unwilling to dignify her slander with a response or acknowledgement. One side of the moon isn’t better than the other because it shines in the light.  


Cassandra takes a steadying breath, picking her words, “And now, I don’t have anything left. You extracted and forced every last secret, and, you know what? I’m done. You win. You get what you want.”  


Hannibal’s eyes narrow; winning certainly doesn’t feel like this.  


“I’ll learn what you have to teach, about… any of it, I’ll even help with your installations, and I’ll stop being so combative all the time,” Cassandra inhales shakily. “But I don’t want to be your friend anymore. I can’t keep playing this game when you have it so rigged.”  


He shakes his head wearily, “Cassandra, I didn’t design this as a game to be won, I designed it to be. You are so focused on gaining some semblance of control, but there’s no upper hand, no way to win something unwinnable. You won’t win by trying, my dear, not with me.”  


Her lip curls, “Easy for you to say, when you know all the rules, pull all the strings. I’m still flying blind.”  


“No. There’s no way out of this trap but into it, and that’s a lesson you’re better served learning now than later.” Hannibal stands, forcing Cassandra take a step back. He clasps her shoulders before she can shrink away, “You insist you’re blinded, then learn a new way to see. You of all people should understand the futility of trying to force the world to look a certain way through a broken lens. Shed the veil you’ve constructed to hide yourself from the world. I promise, it stops hurting as soon as you stop resisting.”  


Cassandra blinks rapidly, her eyes starting to brim with tears. She’s been through so much in the past 24 hours. Hannibal’s thumb brushes her cheek. Her neck would snap as easily as a dove’s.  


“You won’t win until you stop fighting.”  


Her face screws up bitterly and she shoves him back, the gravel crunching and slipping under his shoes as he avoids the cliff edge.  


“God dammit, Hannibal, I WASN’T FIGHTING FOR ANYTHING,” Cassandra yells, the noise bouncing around the bluff. “Not in the beginning! I wanted a friend, but every time I didn’t perform, or react, or dance the way you wanted me to, you, you, just kept fucking piling it on… And now I’m on the FBI’s map- and, and, FUCK!”  


Cassandra trails off in a noise of outrage and flings the apple over the edge, arcing into the dark water.  


Hannibal has seen enough. He lunges forward, catching Cassandra off guard and wrenching her arm back and around. His other hand knots in Cassandra’s hair, eliciting a grunt through gritted teeth. Cassandra’s shoes slip on the gravel as Hannibal propels her to the edge of the cliff.  


A huge gust of wind surges off the ocean, almost knocking them off balance and Cassandra gasps, avoiding looking into the black water and white foam below. Hannibal takes a deep breath, calming his raw nerves with the scent of her fear. No matter how she mouths off, he still holds the advantages, he has to.  


“You might have waited for me to teach you how to get out of holds like this before you pushed too far.”  


Cassandra’s feet push and scrabble uselessly, every muscle tensed as her heartrate rises. She’s committed to learning this lesson again and again. The struggling stops and Hannibal registers the pressure of Cassandra’s free hand wrapped around his belt buckle. He blinks; this would be fun in any other context.  


Hell, it’s fun now. Unpredictable, infuriating, tedious, but fun. Hannibal makes a low grumble in his chest as Cassandra leans against him, away from the empty air. If she goes, he goes. They stay like that for a time, until Hannibal turns them around, releasing his hold. Cassandra grunts, backing away and behind the bench to put a barrier between them. Hannibal should kill her. It would be easy. She’s gone unchecked for too long- for what does he need the attention a fledgling killer always brings?  


Cassandra rubs her shoulder, glowering, more furious than afraid. A problem. _Kill her. But how? The cliff? How mundane._ They both deserve more.  


She makes a noise of frustration, “You can look at me like that as much as you want, like I’m a dog that needs to be put down, I don’t care. I’m done asking and waiting for you to stop treating me like garbage.”  


A massive wave crashes below, heralding the tides’ change, and gulls answer in their shrill chorus. Cassandra is still trying to get her breath back after the rush of adrenaline.  


“Hannibal, what can you hope to teach me if you don’t respect me? What could you possibly offer someone you see so beneath you?”  


“I don’t-“  


“No, I’m tired, Hannibal. I said what I needed to say, and you’ll listen, or you won’t,” Cassandra’s hands grip the back of the bench as she tries to keep balanced as the strain of last night’s activities catch up to her. She closes her eyes tightly, face paling. Hannibal considers carrying her inside, but she continues. “I might never know a wine by the smell, and I don’t speak four languages, but for someone that cares so much about the rarities of life, you had a chance at something priceless. And you fucking blew it.”  


Hannibal frowns. He speaks six languages. Cassandra is already walking back to the house, her shoulders hunched against the cold morning. She needs to eat something more substantial than an apple. He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  


Cassandra’s half-empty teacup sits on the bench, its gold trim catching the light. Hannibal picks it up with careful resignation and lets it shatter on the pebbly ground, white porcelain shining amongst the dull stone pebbles. With that done, Hannibal luxuriates in a stretch to greet the sun, a smile spreading across his face. Cassandra is finally coming into her own, more in an irritating stumble than a blossoming, but no matter. And to think, Hannibal worried he broke Cassandra so soon. She wants to be equals, as preposterous as it sounds, but Hannibal will allow a fragmented familiarity, some sort of tangential affair.  


It’s certainly not Hannibal’s problem he didn’t fulfill on her naïve expectations, and now they both get to be disappointed. Hannibal knew Cassandra too well to expect a painless capitulation, but the reality of her becoming promises further surprises.  


She won’t admit it now, but Cassandra did choose him, evident by how uselessly she appeals for “proper” treatment. And, unfortunately, Hannibal chose her, evident in the way she still breathes. Another gust of wind batters Hannibal and he retreats to the house. Cassandra left her mess on the counter and Hannibal doesn’t care to venture into the cellar, so he takes his morning coffee under the frosty gaze of Cassandra’s collateral damage.  


By the time he cleans up Thomas’ head, the clock reads past 8 AM. Scrambled eggs slide into the pan, hissing quietly. Low and slow, with butter, the French (and only acceptable) method. Something catches Hannibal’s attention as he closes the refrigerator: smudges on the handle of the largest knife in the block. Smudges Hannibal didn’t leave.  


It stops hurting when you stop resisting.

#### XXVII

“Sometime tonight, please,” I grumble under my breath. Hannibal deposited me behind a bush while he ran off to do his breaking and entering. The thought of Hannibal hiding in a bush crosses my mind and I almost laugh.  


My hand closes around the comforting weight of the phone in my pocket, SIM card and all. I haven’t used it, and I won’t use it, but I like knowing it’s there. Hannibal made a big show of removing the security sensors off my bedroom door and returning my phone to me, like a parent trusting their child with the keys to the car. He sulked and ignored me most of the day as he worked through his new angles. Eventually, Hannibal will force himself through another crack in my defense, or get tired of me and end it all, but at least I’ll die knowing he heard me this morning.  


I jump when the lights in the mall parking lot shut down, cutting the power to the Santa’s Wonderland building. My eyes strain to make out shapes in the sudden darkness, but I can see are the erratic movements of a flashlight as someone leaves the trailer next to the Wonderland and looks for the cause for the loss of power. Thanksgiving has yet to pass, so security is still sparse.  


A lunging shadow followed by a choked exclamation and the flashlight’s beam cutting off. Hannibal hard at work. My heartrate increases as my hands twitch, remembering the slick warmth and coppery scent of the night before, ready for a reprise.  


_Inhale, exhale. Don’t get too excited now./em > My jaw clenches. The only thing I hate more than Hannibal’s manipulative games is how right he is. I wanted it, I’ve always wanted it, but he fucked it all up. Two steps forward, one step back. I don’t know what the alternative could have been, but he pushed me down the path when all I needed was a guide to help me find my way. It’s not like I asked for a bed of roses and my hand to be held, with lots of eye contact and reassurance, but there has to be a middle ground between that and crouching in the dirt behind a dying mall or nearly getting frostbite.  
_

__

“Come now, quietly, please,” flashes across my phone screen and I set out from my hiding spot, picking my way around puddles and through fake snow by sense more than sight. If the small act of acceptance last night revealed this much of the world to me, what would I become by the end of this? I take one last look over my shoulder at the empty lot before the door closes. This would have been a special occasion if he handled things differently.  


__

Hannibal passes me a pair of shoulder-length latex gloves when I slip inside the temporary building. I take them gingerly, my eyebrow quirking up.  


__

“Where did you find gloves like this?”  


__

“Ranchers use them somewhere in the process for breeding farm animals. I bought them for a colleague as a joke, but decided they were better used serving their intended purpose...”  


__

Hannibal pauses as the man on the floor takes a labored, wheezing breath, annoyance crossing his face at the interruption.  


__

“…Rummaging around inside of livestock.”  


__

The man continues writhing on the floor, clutching at his throat. I gulp, still not used to them being alive.  


__

Hannibal catches my uneasiness, “Don’t get cold feet on me now, Cassandra, you said you wanted to learn.”  


__

“N-no, I do, I guess I’m wondering how I’m supposed to… take them down, is all. He’s a big guy, and I’m not exactly small, but…”  


__

“In time.”  


__

Hannibal turns to set up a selection of blades and other serial killer accoutrements, his clear raincoat making soft noises. I tug on the gloves, avoiding our subject on the floor. He provided me with a jumpsuit identical to the one I wear when I make art, not work in the basement.  


__

“Hannibal…” I begin, looking uncertainly at the Santa’s Workshop set we stand in. Hannibal’s scalpels rest next to a snow globe on Santa’s worktable. The man groaning on the floor sports a large white beard, a potbelly, and stained clothes. Garish cardboard cutouts of cartoon elves and reindeer smile at us from their places in the waiting line, where children and families stand.  


__

“Yes?”  


__

“Are you seriously killing a mall Santa?”  


__

“No, Cassandra, _we_ are seriously killing a mall Santa, and a bad one at that,” Hannibal pats my shoulder reassuringly before he catches the action and withdraws his hand. We aren’t friends anymore, but that means I have no idea what we are now. The knot in my stomach grows. Last night, I handled a body that was 90% of the way dead. I took it to the finish line, and he was going to die anyway, but now this one is very much alive. And protesting.  


__

“Please…!” He finally manages to croak out. His eyes meet mine, bloodshot and watering. “There’s nothing here, I swear! The charity collection doesn’t start until after Thanksgiving. C-come back then, you can have anything.”  


__

Hannibal rolls his eyes, but I can’t look away. _They’ve never been alive!_ Anticipation and excitement shrivel and turn into a primal fear, a revulsion. Some small, juvenile part of me says this is wrong, but I’ve never felt more alive. I want nothing more than to rip off these sweaty gloves so I can get as close as possible. Blood isn’t hard to pick out from your fingernails if you use peroxide.  


__

“Control yourself, Cassandra, don’t follow the rabbit down the hole, stay here, with me,” Hannibal places a roll of fishing line on the desk and grasps my shoulders, forcing me to look away from our subject, out of my racing thoughts. “Waking up might be difficult for you, given how long you’ve denied yourself. Keep your head. You’ve done this your whole life; I’m simply adding an extra step.”  


__

I nod, looking back at the mall Santa in the same second he pulls a knife out of his boot, eyes on Hannibal’s legs. I move swiftly, sidestepping Hannibal and slamming my foot into Santa’s face before I realize what I’m doing. The knife slips out of his hands and I send it skittering across the floor.  


__

“A natural.” Hannibal's proud smile drops quickly, with a stiffness that almost feels awkward. Somehow, I can’t to find it in myself to care about his hurt feelings. The first step in getting out of a hole is to stop digging, but Hannibal is hellbent on finding gold.  


__

Santa squeals and clasps a hand over his shattered teeth, his blood black in the low light while I try to process what I did. As a child, I never got into fights at school. The idea was unthinkable, and I just graduated to breaking a stranger’s front teeth in a single blow. Hannibal strides around and breaks Santa’s leg for the trouble, snapping the knee joint in one smooth movement. I jump, not at the bones cracking, but at the sounds of anguish that come with it. Mine never complain. Hannibal checks his shoe for scuffs, and I wonder if I’ll ever achieve his level of nonchalance.  


__

With the tools laid out, Hannibal asks me to kneel on Santa’s wrists and I comply. Hannibal still wants me to participate in some degree, even on my own terms. I groan and scrunch my nose as the stench of alcohol and general male foulness attacks my nostrils.  


__

“Are you just now sensing that?” Hannibal tuts, “You’re worse off than I thought. I could smell it from outside the building.”  


__

“Hannibal, we’ve established I’m not as advanced as you in most ways, I get it.”  


__

“Stupid cunt,” Santa croaks and tries weakly to spit blood on me. The alcohol in his system dampens the seriousness of his situation. There’s no way this is a simple case of wrong place, wrong time, for this man, but I can’t fathom how Hannibal knew he would be here, on this day, before the Christmas season is in full swing.  


__

Hannibal grunts, “Hit him again.”  


__

“I’ll pass.”  


__

“Suit yourself,” Hannibal shrugs and drops coils of Christmas lights on the ground next to me.  


__

This is real. This is happening.  


__

“Why did you pick him?”  


__

“If you’re trying to extrapolate whether or not you find his death ‘right’ or ‘deserved’ by some inconsequential list of criteria, you’ll have to wait till he’s dead.”  


__

“But-“  


__

“Do you ask Paolo why the bodies he brings you had to die?”  


__

I huff and fall silent, waiting for Hannibal to decide what’s next for me, just like the twitching man on the floor.  


__

Hannibal kneels on the floor with me, in Santa’s fucking workshop, holding a scalpel and a wearing pleasant grin. It hits me. How long has it been since he had someone to observe? Witness? The cruel difference in the ways we have experienced the other working isn’t lost on me. Me, under the influence or duress, and he, casual as anything.  


__

“Hamburger, or hotdog?”  


__

“What?”  


__

“Pick one, please.”  


__

“… Hotdog.”  


__

“Very well.”  


__

One fluid motion, Hannibal slices the stranger open, sternum to groin. Longways. Our subject makes a heaving, strangled noise, wet and desperate. I don’t have time to gasp, and Hannibal is already slicing away. The stranger bucks uselessly, his eyes bulging, and then the screaming begins. Drunk Santa realized far too late that Hannibal and I were here for more than robbery. Struggling only makes the blood flow quicker.  


__

Clamping my hands over the stranger’s mouth, I fight to keeping my emotions in check. This isn’t awful, it’s incredible. Exhilarating. It has to be. I’m struck with familiar admiration for Hannibal’s deft skill, like the first time I worked in his kitchen.  


__

“Do you know how to paralyze vocal cords?”  


__

I shake my head frantically. _Breathe._ This is the show, from behind the scenes to center stage.  


__

“Strike higher than you think, and much harder.”  


__

“What, now?!” My voice cracks.  


__

“If it’s convenient,” Hannibal says brightly, wrist deep in Santa’s abdomen. “He’ll go into shock sooner or later, but the noise could attract problems.”  


__

I groan. Santa is still screaming, kicking his unbroken leg, driven by adrenaline and survival instincts. I have to get good at this eventually, and Hannibal is finally asking instead of forcing, in his way.  


__

The first strike does little more than give the victim pause. He coughs and goes right back to struggling. Hannibal raises an eyebrow dubiously.  


__

Fine.  


__

I dig deep. It’ll be easy, easier than I think. I have help now. Let’s be honest, Hannibal is as much help as I’m ever going to get.  


__

A muted crunch, like breaking eggshells, and the screaming trickles into a halting wheeze. I gasp, my hands beginning to shake, unable to look away from the gaping mouth and eyes rolling white under me. The image of Hannibal’s offering for my inspiration, Audubon’s golden eagle carrying away a screaming rabbit, comes to mind. My mouth goes dry as I focus on keeping his panic from infecting me. I’m no longer a deer in the herd. I’m one of the wolves now. Keep your head. You wanted this.  


__

“Much better, thank you,” Hannibal doesn’t look up, leaving me to grapple with the experience on my own. The struggling grows weaker by the moment, and I finally take a breath after I’m not sure how long. Every time I think I’m less afraid of Hannibal, he does something to make my stomach turn.  


__

Hannibal works quickly, with almost as much mastery and assurance as my grandmother. Our victim’s eyes begin to glaze over and struggling turns into trembling, the wheezes coming in longer intervals.  


__

“And there’s the shock, right on schedule. You have him as good as dead; do you still care to know why we are working with him tonight?”  


__

I blink, chucking hesitantly, “Hannibal you opened him like a pig.”  


__

Hannibal clicks his tongue, annoyed at my denial, “And pig he is, however, I didn’t do anything I couldn’t reverse.” Hannibal gestures at me with the scalpel. “You crushed his trachea, which I doubt you know how to fix.”  


__

“You said I was paralyzing the vocal cords!”  


__

“I said to aim high, Cassandra, listen next time, and do something with this, would you please?” Hannibal passes me a gallbladder and it almost slips from my dumbfounded grasp.  


__

I push my frustration down. Hannibal wants a reaction, and I did say I would stop being difficult, _but for fucks sake._  


__

“You can’t keep duping me into killing people and then acting like it counts,” I stand and leave the gallbladder on the table.  


__

“Counts for what? You killed him; a death is a death. There’s no partial credit here.”  


__

“Spare me.”  


__

“Of course,” Hannibal inclines his head, “I wouldn’t need to keep bringing you half-dead prey to practice on like a little lion cub if you would grow up and hunt for yourself.” He stands, pulling the intestines free of the peritoneum. Viscera magnifies Hannibal’s intense focus and efficiency into an inhuman frenzy I’ve never seen before. Hannibal notices me noticing and I look away. Adrenaline is a confusing drug.  


__

“You’ve never given me a choice in the matter,” I cross my arms.  


__

“You may choose whom you’d to kill any time, Ms. Marder.”  


__

I scowl, struggling to accept that idea, even though he has a point. I could choose anyone. I have the cleanup experience, and that’s almost always what gets people caught.  


__

“If you were to choose, who would your first be?”  


__

“Are you available as an option?”  


__

Hannibal chuckles sympathetically, “If you can manage it.”  


__

His words hang in the air. I regret again my choice to decapitate the man in the freezer instead of Hannibal. Hannibal doesn’t think I have it in me to truly bite the hand that feeds, and my certainty wavers as well. I stood outside his bedroom door with a kitchen knife for an eternity. Even with nothing to lose, I couldn’t do it. It was such an unfamiliar headspace, scary and intoxicating. I needed to breathe and at the same time, I worried I’d never find that headspace again if I let it go. What would I have done after, anyway? Would Will have given back Apollo without issue?  


__

“You never know,” I say and look uneasily out the frosted windows. “Would you tell me why, now? He seems a little low-grade for you.” I indicate the stained shirt and greasy beard of the man on the floor.  


__

“True, I avoid junk food. We won’t be taking pieces that can’t be marinated and slow-roasted into an acceptable meal, if we take anything.” Hannibal inclines his head, weighing options.  


__

I nod sagely. I hate how easily I’ve accepted all of this. Sure, there was initial conflict, but now that he’s dead, Hannibal’s reasonings hardly matter aside from my passing curiosity. Paolo rarely deigned to tell me about our victims unless it was because something went wrong with his gambling habits.  


__

“The most important reason to remember, Cassandra, is that they die because I, we, willed it so. Everything that comes after is a trifling. However, when it comes to my choosing, I believe that whenever possible, one should strive to eat the rude.”  


__

Hannibal glances to me and all I can do is nod. Now is not the time to spend energy debating Hannibal’s philosophy.  


__

“It goes without saying that this one is exceedingly discourteous,” Hannibal nudges Santa’s head with a shoe. “But in this case, I have reason to believe he’s a child predator, and with Christmas coming, I figured save some families the trouble.”  


__

I hum, “Never pegged you as a vigilante type.”  


__

Hannibal shrugs, “’Tis the season. I don’t tolerate child abuse.”  


__

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but Hannibal’s expression tells me this issue sits closer to his heart than he lets on. My feet shift uncomfortably, and I clear my throat.  


__

“I’m sorry, you don’t strike me as someone with an affinity for children. It’s great to wipe a pedophile off the Earth, but I didn’t think it was on your radar.”  


__

Hannibal softens, satisfied by my repeal, but I can keep an agreement, even if he can’t. I haven’t forgotten about the redhead at the coffee shop and her camera.  


__

Outside, the wind batters our little shelter. I resent the reminder that there’s another world out there, that might examine and reject us. It’s easier to forget the world from 30 feet underground. Hannibal and I aren’t the same, but I accept the folly that is pretending I’m closer to a someone else than I am to him. Hannibal strives to keep his face an intelligible mask at all times, but I’m getting better at reading him. Judging by his expression, neither of us had a chance at normal from the earliest beginnings, but Hannibal declined further allowances of my sympathy.  


__

“I have a child, Cassandra.”  


__

“Oh,” I frown, thinking back to Hannibal’s homes and offices, trying to recall a photo, or clothes, anything that would hint at a child’s presence. A refrigerator like Hannibal’s doesn’t seem fit for finger paintings and macaroni art. I reserve judgement on whether or not Hannibal 'should' have a child, or act as a parental figure to anyone. He’s considerably older than me, so how old might the child be? Nana didn’t hide what she did from me for long. I began helping her before I hit my teenage years, and I turned out alright, all things considered.  


__

“An adopted child, of sorts.” Hannibal conceals his hesitance to relinquish this information to me by examining the boxes and wrapping paper on display. The victim on the floor ceased its twitching minutes ago and the blood flows across the floor lazily, already thickening in the cold like molasses.  


__

“She’s at her own crossroads, at the moment, but since taking her on, my abhorrence for child cruelty has exponentiated.”  


__

“That makes sense,” I offer unhelpfully. I haven’t had much experience with children, aside from Nana’s Sunday School students and the rare occasions a client’s child was home from boarding school. There’s more to this than Hannibal is telling me, but if he expects me to care enough to ask questions, he has another thing coming. Hannibal busies himself with partitioning the body and I look around the room awkwardly for my own task. They say idle hands are the devil’s workshop, but I’ve already been and made it out alive.  


__

My phone chimes, causing me to jump. Hannibal looks up, bloodied gloves straining to hold broken ribs in place. The air warps with tension and Hannibal’s body shifts slightly, ready to lunge if need be.  


__

“It’s Will, no need for alarm,” I hold my phone so he can see the new message notification.  


__

Hannibal hums, relaxes, “And what is dear Will going up so late?”  


__

“See for yourself.”  


__

Apollo and the rest of Will’s pack lay in the warm light of a fire. Four of Will’s dogs use Apollo as a headrest, one of his favorite things. Hannibal looks at the photo, to me, and back to his work. I cradle the phone, holding the screen close and willing myself away from here. It’s been months since I spent more than 36 hours away from my dog  


__

“You’ll see him tomorrow, when we’re done here,” Hannibal doesn’t look up.  


__

I nod absentmindedly, trying to decide what to text back. _Thanks for watching my dog while I was forced into murdering two people in as many days, Will!_ Apparently, I’ve accepted responsibility for the death of the stranger on the floor. It doesn’t bother me at all, which bothers me.  


__

My head shoots up in realization, “Wait, we’re coming back tomorrow?”  


__

Hannibal glances up at me and gestures at the room, “I expect the scene will be discovered mid-morning, and by the time clean-up and forensics arrive and set up, it’ll be early afternoon. Will lives a few hours away, and I’ll likely be called in to assist.”  


__

“But you’re not a profiler,” my uneasiness returns, knowing what Hannibal is hinting at. Hannibal stands, intestines coiling onto the floor, a strand of Christmas lights twinkling from inside.  


__

“No, but you’re the new expert on the block, when it comes to the Ripper, yes? Jack loved your comments, by the way, he said they were very helpful,” Hannibal smirks. “He wants your take, the next time the Ripper becomes active.”  


__

My anger flares. Up until now, Hannibal kept our activities limited to our private spaces, his homes or mine, but now he expects me to get interrogated in my own crime scene?!  


__

“No. No, Hannibal, I won’t do it. It’s too much,” I look around the space, at the scene Hannibal is only just beginning to assemble.  


__

“Cassandra, I’ll be with you the whole time- you’ll do brilliantly, given what I’ve seen of your acting skills.”  


__

“You never said anything about having to deal with the FBI so directly,” I step forward, my voice rising. Hannibal never reveals his plans, but this crosses a line I didn’t know I had. “I won’t do it- you have no right to put me in that sort of danger.”  


__

As if he had a right to lock me in the freezer.  


__

“My will is my right, Cassandra,” Hannibal turns on me, his voice sharpening and I shiver when his veil slips. I still don’t have the words for it. “What did I say this morning- ‘you won’t win until you stop fighting’. Do you want an insight to the way the enemy thinks, to guide their useless investigations, or do you want to keep licking your wounds like an animal?”  


__

I swallow hard. My life, until recently, was devoted to avoiding detection or investigation. I pay my taxes on time, drive the speed limit, recycle. Hannibal expects me to rub elbows with the organization dedicated to putting people like us behind bars in the same way he does.  


__

“I’ve tolerated your squalling for far too long. You don’t get to demand a level playing field and then balk when I give you exactly that.” His irritation grows, “How long will you insist on your own weakness?”  


__

Hannibal does nothing halfway; the failure to anticipate is on me. This is him believing in me, wanting the best for my life and my practice, and trying not to be a complete ass about it.  


__

“Fine,” I say quietly. “Will was easy enough.”  


__

Hannibal nods curtly and returns to the pieces of human on the floor, “Now, how good are you at tying bows?”

__


End file.
